


You Can Leave Your Cape On

by kahn



Series: Gotham City Lights [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: The Animated Series, Iron Man (Comic), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Childhood Friends, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, depressed thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:31:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kahn/pseuds/kahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He hasn't seen or heard from Bruce in <b>six years</b> and the asshole is just going to pretend like they have nothing to say to one another. Or maybe he honestly thinks that Tony can't tell, doesn't know who exactly is behind the mask, and isn't that just completely insulting? Tony may not be cognizant enough to put one foot in front of the other with any consistency but his mind, even strapped into the hell's amusement park whirly-gig of benzodiazepines, is coherent enough to do basic math.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Tony will always know Bruce. That is the simplest equation in the world.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Tony Stark is absolutely NOT Batman's Lois Lane. </p><p>(Further details on the warnings in the notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Can Leave Your Cape On

**Author's Note:**

> Written but not finished for the Crossover Big Bang. _Almost_ finished for the WIP Big Bang, and then finally, _finally_ completed, TWO YEARS (and six days) LATE, because I am LAMESAUCE.
> 
> I was paired up with extremely talented artists both times, and I hope everyone looks at this amazingly **[gorgeous artwork](http://crowdraws.tumblr.com/post/86781266228/amber-days-art-for-you-can-leave-your-cape-on)** by [Anna the Crow](http://annathecrow.tumblr.com/). And this equally **[amazing art](http://sparrowshellcat.dreamwidth.org/75435.html)** by [sparrowshellcat](http://sparrowshellcat.dreamwidth.org/profile). This story is just completely unworthy of this art, seriously. LOOK AT HOW BEAUTIFUL IT IS.
> 
>  **Notes on the warnings:** The rape/non-con is implied and very vague. The mentioned child abuse is non-graphic or just vaguely alluded to, but please proceed with caution. Feel free to message me if you want further details before proceeding. Also, Howard Stark is based more on 616!Howard than MCU!Howard, which is to say he isn't a nice person and if you like Howard Stark I would respectfully suggest you skip this story.
> 
> And I feel **I should warn for this, too, just in case** : there's not a lot of Batman and Iron Man in this--it's mostly backstory with Tony and Bruce as children, being adorable. So for those of you who want a lot of action sequences—sorry! This story is probably going to be full of disappointment for you.
> 
> Marvel Universe Continuity: This is about 95% MCU (Marvel Movie-verse), with some 616 influence.  
> DC Universe Continuity: This is about 60% Batman the Animated Series, 20% other cartoons, 20% comics, and I sort of futz around with the timeline and everyone's ages. Hopefully it'll all make sense in the story. We're also working with the idea that Gotham is located in New Jersey or at least is within reasonable traveling distance from New York City.

Tony's eighteen and on his knees with a stranger's hard hand in his hair and everything in a pretty halo of smeared light when he first meets the Batman. One second, Tony's pulling desperately against the silk ropes binding his wrists, snaking in intricate _effective_ patterns up his arms, looping his throat—silk because Tony's an expensive commodity and that makes him laugh and laugh—the next, the man who paid good money for Tony, the man with a million-dollar smile and an expensive suit, designer shades— _shades_ ; shades _indoors_ , what a douche—is gone, out of Tony's vision just...vanished. Tony's scalp stings. Tony thinks the man took a handful of hair with him, wherever he went.  
  
Then the Batman looms over him, grim and all in black, like a living shadow sucking the light out of the room. Tony tries to focus on him, really tries, tries to understand what's going on, but he hasn't felt right for...days? For a while. Tony has a decent knowledge of drugs, mostly recently acquired, but they gave him a cocktail and though he's tried to figure out what was in it because then maybe he could counter it, maybe he could escape, he hasn't had much success, hasn't been thinking straight for...for days, weeks, maybe almost a year. Not since...  
  
Tony shies away from memories of rain, of sharp, glittering displays of wealth, of problems a whole ocean away and flinches back when the Batman reaches out a spiky black gauntlet because Tony doesn't know the Batman from Adam and the Batman is terrifying, the hulking form of a demon, gargoyle, monster from under the bed when you don't know that he's on your side.  
  
Later, Tony would come to learn that the Batman could be intimidating even when he was obviously an ally.  
  
At the moment, though, Tony only barely manages to hold onto the fragments of his conscious not intent on freaking the fuck out and descending into trippy drugged-up madness, and only because the Batman hesitates, the tight line of his mouth wavering or maybe that's just Tony's eyesight going.  
  
"Tony," the Batman says, rough and low.  
  
That voice, that voice melts warmth down Tony's spine, fills the hollow spaces between his bones, speaks of _home home home_ in a way that Tony's not heard in _years_.  
  
 _Bruce_ , Tony thinks, but what he says is, "You're wearing a cape," and then he laughs and can't stop, even when he feels like he might throw up or start crying.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Tony's three and sitting under a stone bench in a garden that seems bigger than the whole world the first time he meets Bruce Wayne. He's sketching absently in the dirt, chewing on a galvanized copper gear bigger than his fist. His parents brought him here with his nanny, one more party in a string of parties, each one full of sparkle and high heels and silk ties that Tony's _not to touch_. It's hot, but the big fountain is fascinating and the shadow under the bench is cool. Tony hasn't seen anyone he knows for a while, hasn't seen _anyone_ for a while, in fact, but he's used to being alone, so that doesn't upset him, much.  
  
Tony doesn't hear Bruce's approach, but he can't miss when the boy sticks his face in Tony's face, upside down because Bruce has somehow managed to climb on top of the bench without Tony noticing.  
  
"Hey," Bruce says, loud in the relative quiet. "Hey, what are you doing under there?"  
  
That's a very complicated question. Tony's not sure he has the words to answer. So he holds up his teething gear and then points to the fountain. These are the two things occupying his time, right now.  
  
"Are you lost? Aren't you afraid?"  
  
Tony thinks seriously about this, and then shakes his head. Tony's more afraid of the big-person-lady who's supposed to take care of him than he is of being here by himself in a strange place. Bruce doesn't seem to take his answer at face value, though, his face scrunching into a serious expression.  
  
"Come with me; I'll show you how to get back. It'll be okay. I'll protect you. Keep you safe."  
  
 _Safe_ is a word Tony's heard before, but hasn't attached much meaning to. He thinks it would be better if he stayed here where things are quiet and there are no big-people. He shakes his head again and scrunches his own face into something he'll later know to be stubbornness.  
  
Bruce considers him, black hair a fringe pointing straight toward the ground. Tony wants to put his fingers in it, but he knows better than to touch without permission.  
  
"Don't wanna, huh? Okay." Bruce flops back on the bench, seeming ready to settle in for the long haul. "I'll stay with you."  
  
Something in Tony loosens, feels immediately better when he realizes the other boy isn't leaving.  
  
"My name's Bruce."  
  
To this, Tony has an ingrained response. "Anthony Edward Stark. Pleased to meet you."  
  
Blue eyes fringed with think lashes peer at Tony over the edge of the bench. "That's a big name. For a little guy. How old are you?"  
  
"Three and a half." And he holds up the correct number of fingers to prove it. The half finger is tricky, but he manages.  
  
"I'm five."  
  
Tony nods. Apparently satisfied, Bruce flops back on the bench and falls silent. Usually, quiet doesn't bother Tony, usually it's soothing, but now he finds himself distressed, wanting to hear the other boy's voice again. The world is suddenly too big.  
  
"Boose," Tony says, as close as he can get to the unfamiliar name.  
  
Bruce doesn't lean back over the bench, but his hand—bigger than Tony's but still much smaller than an adult's—gestures down at him, imperious, open, palm up as if to grasp sunlight.  
  
"Take my hand, Tony."  
  
Tony does.  
  
"See?" Bruce says, fingers closing around Tony's, warm and solid. "Safe."  
  
Years later, this is the moment that Tony will associate with that word.  
  
~~  
  
The next time he sees Bruce it's a lot colder. Tony is four. The sky is gray and the glass buildings of the big, loud city street loom above him. He's tired and hungry and _doesn't want new shoes_. He's fighting his nanny, on the verge of tears and her hand on his arm hurts and she's hissing viciously about how much worse it'll hurt if he doesn't _shut up_.  
  
She yanks. He stumbles, but doesn't fall, and suddenly there are arms lifting him up and the smell of warm leather and crisp wool and a sweet hint of pipe tobacco.  
  
Tony doesn't really understand what's happening, except that there's a man he doesn't know holding him securely, propped on a hip. He seems a little familiar, but not enough to be anything but frightening.  
  
Tony almost reaches out to his nanny when she tries to take him back, but then there's another woman standing between them. Her eyes are blue and fierce and her voice is firmly disapproving as she speaks to Tony's nanny. There's a touch on Tony's ankle. When he looks down, Bruce is looking up at him, fingers wrapping more firmly around Tony's leg as they hold eye contact and Tony relaxes. Now that he has context, it's easy to recognize Bruce's parents. Bruce's father's arms feel like an endless hug and Bruce's mother, though a little scary in the face of Tony's nanny, is nothing but kind as she turns toward him, her hand soothing in his hair.  
  
"Would you like to spend the rest of the day with us, dearheart?" she asks. "We'll tell your parents, of course."  
  
The answer is obvious, and when the Waynes learn that Tony's parents are on an extended vacation somewhere far away, they offer to watch Tony until their return. Tony is a little surprised when his parents acquiesce. Surprised but tentatively happy.  
  
Winter at the Wayne house is beautiful, not cold at all—full of tinsel and holly, smelling of pine and hot chocolate.  
  
Hot chocolate is a staple at the Wayne household during the Christmas season, Tony learns. That and warm apple cider and hot, fresh bread. The Wayne's head chef is a large, boisterous man with a French accent that makes everything he says rub like soft fur against Tony's ears.  
  
" _Chef de cuisine_ ," Anton says with exaggerated haughtiness. "That is my correct title." Then his eyes twinkle and he puts a little more powered sugar on Tony's pancakes.  
  
The pastry chef—the _pâtissier_ , as Anton insists—is a tiny Japanese woman with no discernible accent, but command of at least four languages as far as Tony has counted. She yells at Anton in two of them, declaring him lazy and arrogant and then slips the boys homemade chocolates with a wink and a grin that takes up most of her face, makes her eyes almost disappear behind her cheeks.  
  
The housekeeper is Mrs. Williams. She wears her dark hair in a neat braid and her dark skin hides a wealth of laugh lines around her deep dark eyes. Her presence is calm and commanding as she introduces Tony to the rest of the staff, a full regiment of maids and groundskeepers, though most of the latter are gone for the season.  
  
Then there's Alfred, the Waynes' butler, who has warm eyes and a gentle touch and when he rubs ointment on the bruises Tony's nanny left behind it doesn't even hurt.  
  
Tony's not used to this many people. His own house is staffed very minimally—mostly a few lab assistants and a nanny for Tony and sometimes a girl who helps his mother with her day-to-day. But the Wayne household learns quickly that he doesn't like to be picked up or held or even touched, much. Other people's clothing is scratchy on Tony's skin and there are too many scents: lotions, shampoo, detergent, perfumes on the girls and cologne on the guys, tobacco smoke. His father keeps himself and the house very clean, sterile, in deference to his many delicate projects. The Stark staff follow suite and Tony almost never sees his mother so he has no idea what she smells like.  
  
The Wayne household staff don't push him and let him set his own boundaries and are patient with his stubbornness and his skittishness. A few of the younger maids try to speak baby talk at him until they realize it makes Tony withdrawn and quiet. Word spreads quickly that the young master's new friend prefers to be addressed as an adult, despite being very far from one. They accommodate without much fuss.  
  
Bruce stays at his side throughout it all. They go exploring their first day, running up and down hallways, dodging the swish of woolen skirts that the female staff wear in the winter, ducking into rooms, each one like a separate world. Every space had its own light and look, textures and colors all interesting and distinct. Tony's own house is uniform and exact. The Wayne house is eclectic and just a little whimsical. Tony could've lingered long minutes in any one of the rooms, but Bruce is impatient, making a quick circuit to show Tony his favorite bits and then lingering by the doorway, practically vibrating with the need to move on to the next.  
  
Tony doesn't usually like to be rushed, but for Bruce he lets himself be dragged through the house at a ridiculous pace as he tries to absorb as much of it as he can as quickly as possible.  
  
There's Great Aunt Mildred's sitting room which is wallpapered with pictures of cats, each one in a tiny, antique brass frame. The actual wallpaper is possibly a mint green or a teal; Tony doesn't get the chance to get close enough to see for certain. Cousin Claire had been an aspiring movie star in the forties. Her vanity is bright like the sun when Bruce flips the switch to show Tony. There is a collection of dusty makeup in the drawers, the pancake dry and cracked, the mirrors cloudy. A fake head sits on a stand to one side, sporting a stylish wig and a hat with a sweeping brim. Tony stares into the blank eyes until Bruce pulls him away.  
  
Then there's a whole wing of guest rooms. Tony likes the room with the New York City mural painted on the walls. Bruce spends the longest time in the room with the collection of chairs and spare furniture, climbing on top of high things and jumping off again. He's already constructed a surprisingly sturdy stack that almost reaches the ceiling and he tries to coax Tony into its highest point, promising safety, but Tony won't be pressured, and he's never been much attracted to climbing.  
  
"We'll go to the circus," Bruce decides. " _Then_ you'll want to. They have these people—trapezists—they fly high above the ground with _no net_. It's amazing!"  
  
Tony doesn't even know what a circus _is_ , but it sounds both scary and impractical. He'll take Bruce's word about how it might be life-changing, but he doubts he'll ever see anything that makes him want to fly.  
  
They both agree that their favorite is the room that has a projector that shines the night sky on the ceiling when the light is turned off. Everything there is dark blues and silvers and makes the shadows comfortable. There's an old pirate chest at the end of the bed full of maps drawn on actual parchment and books that crackle when they're opened, a compass, a silver letter opener, the handle in the design of a falcon's stern visage, a set of hair pins made of ivory old enough to be brittle and yellowing. There's also a wardrobe full of woolen coats that smell clean, which means one of the maids laundered them recently. It's deep enough for both of them to crawl inside and make up stories in the close darkness.  
  
They chose a room for Tony, unremarkable except that it's across from Bruce's room. The interior of Bruce's bedroom makes it obvious that he spends a great deal of time outdoors and likes to bring his favorite pastime back with him. One of the two huge bay windows with cushioned seats is covered with a collection of plants, well-tended with a clipboard hanging next to them noting growth rates and water intake, written in Bruce's large but neat handwriting. There's a collection of bird nests on his desk and a wealth of all-weather shoes in his closet, all very clean but well-used. His ceiling is hung with mobiles, so numerous it almost looks like an upside down forest.  
  
"My mother," Bruce explains when he sees Tony's fascination. It was an attempt, apparently, to display Bruce's various collections. Bruce prefers them in neatly labeled boxes under his bed, but he's out of space and his parents have yet to give in to his demands that they bequeath him another room just to keep his collections organized.  
  
There are shells and stones, leaves and twigs, perfectly preserved moths and one mobile of fragile-looking flowers. There are several of sea glass, organized by color. Like everything in Bruce's room, all are meticulously clean of dust, catching light like trapped stars.  
  
Aside from that, there are books, stacks and stacks of them, taking up what space remains. First edition Hardy Boys, Sam Spade, a shelf of old fairy tales in the original German, scrapbooks of old newspaper articles. It should be confusing and headache-inducing, too many details and too many textures, scents mingling together, but it's not. Tony clambers up on Bruce's large big-boy four-poster bed and feels at home.  
  
Over the next few weeks, he and Bruce get into all sorts of trouble. There are a lot of places for two clever boys to find mischief in the Wayne mansion and on the surrounding grounds, enough that eventually Bruce's parents tag team them to keep them from breaking too many things. Tony is fascinated by the arts and crafts that Bruce's mother offers as an activity, but Bruce is much more interested in the mock war that his father proposes outside. In the end, they realize they have the time for both.  
  
Bruce's aim with a snowball is always true. He shows Tony the best way to build a fort, to secure defensive structures and stockpile ammunition.  
  
Tony's fingers are small but nimble, and he loves the shine of wrapping paper. He's quick to fold intricate shapes under Bruce's mother's fond, bemused gaze. He shows Bruce the best way to make a paper airplane and spends several hours experimenting until, by the end of the day, Tony's design and Bruce's aim land the nose of a red foil plane in a cup of just-poured tea.  
  
Then they scamper and hide for a while because Alfred responds with his "now you're in trouble" raised eyebrow and Bruce's dad's got his corresponding "yeah, _so much trouble_ ; don't tell your mother how amusing I think this is" grin.  
  
They fall asleep in the wardrobe in their favorite guest room, tangled around each other, to be roused by Alfred and a maid some time later and bustled off to dinner. Sometimes Tony nods off before they get through the soup course, and sometimes he makes it all the way to dessert, but no one says anything, either way. Sometimes, he wakes to comfortable darkness and soft blankets and rolls until he finds the edge of the bed, slides to the floor and pads across the hall to Bruce's room, clambers into the bed and falls asleep to the sound of Bruce breathing. Eventually, they stop bothering to put him in a separate bed.  
  
It's probably safe to say that no one expects Tony to react to the prospect of Christmas at the Waynes' as he does. Bruce's mother stares at him in surprise and Bruce's father in horror as tears well in Tony's eyes and then spill down his cheeks. Bruce hugs him and Tony's just gone, crying miserably into Bruce's shoulder. He knows this is probably bad manners, but he doesn't have presents for anyone and that's unacceptable. Presents are the most important part of Christmas.  
  
Tony's distress leaves everyone scrambling to find something to make him feel better, until he's alone with Alfred while the other three members of the house go to find a toy, some more scraps of paper for Tony's projects or to ask Chef Anton to make a cup of hot cocoa.  
  
"Come, Master Anthony," Alfred says, hand resting lightly on Tony's shoulder blades. "Perhaps if you tell me what you need, we can get this sorted."  
  
"I don't have anything to give them," he tells Alfred, whispered like a guilty secret.  
  
"I'm sure they'd be content with nothing more than your happiness."  
  
Tony shakes his head stubbornly; says, "That isn't enough. This is _important_ , Alfred." And thinks, thinks hard. His eyes track out across the long table he and Bruce have been sitting at, making more and more elaborate paper airplanes and Tony's graduated to three dimensional shapes, trying out boxes and lanterns and square-ish balls, imagining that there was a way to make them fly as well. Suddenly, Tony knows what he needs to do.  
  
He beckons Alfred closer. The butler bends his head and listens intently to the list of supplies Tony rattles off.  
  
"I think most of that can be found in the house. Would you like to help me look?" Alfred holds out a hand. His very white gloves are soft and his grip is just the right amount of firm and gentle.  
  
He and Tony walk the house, peering into nooks and crannies, opening old closets and wardrobes, gathering up the things Tony needs and a fair pile of things he doesn't, things that just caught his eye, like the box of antique buttons, a neat coil of silvery wire, a black and white photograph of the empty field that used to be where the house stands now. It feels like an adventure, like a game and after a time, Tony's completely forgotten his earlier distress.  
  
When Tony's satisfied and both he and Alfred are weighed down with an armful of bits-and-things, the butler finds Tony a private room with a large, empty desk and bars the others from entering. Tony thanks Alfred, spreads his supplies out on the desk and sets to work.  
  
He doesn't finish by dinner, but no amount of coaxing through the door breaks Tony's concentration. Alfred eventually ventures in just far enough to deposit a simple meal: a sandwich, a glass of milk and a cookie on a tray. Tony ignores that, too. When his body starts to shut down and he knows it won't be long before he passes out, Tony stumbles off his stool and curls up against the door, lying long-wise across the threshold. Later that night, a little bump startles him awake as someone tries to get into the room and ends up hitting him gently with the door, which is exactly why he slept in front of it.  
  
"Go 'way," Tony mumbles without even looking to see who it is. "Not done, yet."  
  
"I want to see it," Bruce says, crouched down so he can whisper close to Tony's ear through the crack in the door.  
  
"No. Can't."  
  
"I want to see _you_."  
  
Tony thinks about this, tries to figure out if there's a way to let Bruce in or for Tony to leave without risking the secrecy of his gifts. But he's drowsy and not up for complicated problem solving.  
  
"No."  
  
Bruce sighs, as long and loud as an almost-six-year-old can muster. "Fine." He shuts the door, a little forcefully, and Tony hears a muffled thump and some shuffling from the other side, but he's asleep again before he can wonder too hard.  
  
In the middle of the night, or maybe very early morning, Tony wakes to a rumbling stomach and a full bladder. He opens the door, intent on finding a bathroom and almost trips over Bruce, who has bedded down just outside the door, wrapped in a quilt and laying on a cushion Tony remembers seeing on one of the loveseats in a nearby reading nook. He's dead asleep, just a tousled mop of hair sticking up over his impromptu bedding. Tony reaches out and touches the dark locks before he thinks, enjoying the texture, the cool-soft slide of the strands through his fingers. When he realizes what he's doing, he jerks away, embarrassment stinging his checks.  
  
The only other person whose hair he's ever touched is his mother's. She has beautiful, shining dark curls, usually worn in a perfectly elegant upsweep. Tony's own hair is thicker, coarser, more like his father's and Tony'd been curious about the difference. She had not been appreciative. The lecture on correct and incorrect behavior had lasted a half an hour. Tony had been too young to really understand most of it, but he'd come away with a very vivid impression of her anger, her words like the precise cutting edge of his father's utility knife.  
  
Bruce stirs, burrows deeper, but doesn't wake. Relieved, Tony slips by him, closing the door firmly and then moving hastily down the hall.  
  
He gets lost, of course, because he's in an unfamiliar wing of the house and most of the lights are dim or turned off. Normally, it wouldn't bother him. Darkness doesn't frighten him. But right now he's hungry and tired and needs to pee. He's so focused on his own frustration that he runs headlong into Alfred's leg and falls straight back on his butt.  
  
"Master Anthony!"  
  
"Alfred!" Tony's relief, strangely, makes him feel more upset, like suddenly he has permission to acknowledge all the stress he is suppressing.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"Yes." He feels a little bruised, but the pain's already fading. "Bathroom?" And it's stupid that Tony's voice wavers on the word, like he's a baby and about to cry.  
  
"Of course," Alfred says, taking everything in stride immediately. He's carrying a candle in an old-looking brass holder, the kind with a curly-cue of metal that serves as a handle. It looks like something out of a fairy tale, not that Tony knows much about things as frivolous as fairy tales. He's not dressed like he's working, but in a soft, striped dress-like pajama. He holds out his free hand and Tony takes it. Alfred never reaches _for_ Tony, only reaches _out_ , letting Tony decide if he wants to complete the circuit. His hands without gloves are a little rougher, but Tony doesn't mind.  
  
He shows Tony to the nearest bathroom and then waits until he's done so he can lead Tony back to his work room. They both stop to observe Bruce, asleep and oblivious to the world.  
  
Alfred's voice is gentle in the dark. "He was very insistent on staying near you, Master Anthony."  
  
For some reason, that makes Tony blush and tuck his head against Alfred's hip.  
  
"Don't talk about me when I'm asleep," Bruce mutters, rolling over and squinting as balefully as an almost-six-year-old can manage.  
  
"You're not asleep," Tony reasons.  
  
"Don't talk about me when I'm _not_ asleep, then," Bruce says with a bratty grin, sitting up after a brief struggle with the quilt.  
  
"That makes no sense," Tony informs him, a little exasperated. Really, Bruce should try to be more logical.  
  
Bruce shrugs which means he thinks he's won despite all evidence to the contrary. "Are you done hiding?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
Tony should not find Bruce's pout compelling. Tony's parents are intolerant to any hint of whining, and have taught Tony to be the same. Even so, he finds himself saying, "Maybe for a little while."  
  
Tony's stomach flutters and the world seems to brighten with Bruce's smile. They settle into Tony's untouched dinner, splitting the sandwich and cookie between them. Alfred leaves them to it. Peanut butter and homemade blueberry jam on fresh bread with the crust cut off proves delicious. Tony is wary of the room temperature milk, but Bruce shows him it's tasty enough when you dunk cookies into it. Alfred returns fully dressed, just in time to whisk the empty tray away.  
  
Bruce coaxes Tony from his project for almost half a day, but after lunch Tony is back at it, hunched over the desk and working until his back aches and his fingers feel raw. By the time he's finished, it's dark outside, again. Tony hears a thump outside his door and slips off his stool, stretching his arms and moving to investigate. He finds Bruce in the process of bedding down, a long-suffering look on his face.  
  
"Silly," Tony says.  
  
"You're _more_ silly," Bruce retorts. "Done, yet?"  
  
Tony nods and bites his lip.  
  
"Well, c'mon, then," Bruce says and helps Tony carry the carefully wrapped gifts to the tree in the main den.  
  
One of the maids is turning off lights and she pauses to coo over the packages. Bruce holds them up proudly as if he's the one that produced them, showing off for Tony's benefit. She turns a smile on Tony, who is too tired to fend off her hand when she pats his head. Bruce crowds between them, making her back up a step, protective though he's all smiles and boisterous movement and she doesn't seem to notice the rebuttal for what it is. She helps them arrange the gifts _just so_. Then all three stand back and admire them.  
  
Of course, it isn't until after the gifts are finished and wrapped and waiting under the tree that Tony thinks to be nervous. What if no one likes them?  
  
The days leading up to Christmas are frantic, though, leaving Tony little time to fret. The boys get drafted to help with the cleaning, bringing wood in for the fire, carefully setting various tables and carrying already-prepared food to the huge refrigerators. There's a pre-Christmas party for the staff before everyone but Alfred goes home for the holidays. Tony falls asleep on Bruce's father's lap and wakes up to Alfred throwing the curtains open in Bruce's room. Beside him, Bruce grumbles and burrows deeper into the bedding.  
  
"Alfred?" he queries over breakfast, sitting at a small breakfast nook by himself. He's much more of a morning person than any of the Waynes.  
  
"Yes, Master Anthony?"  
  
"Why aren't _you_ going home?"  
  
Alfred whisks eggs with efficiency for a few moments before answering. "My home is here."  
  
Tony considers this, letting it settle in his mind as he cuts his tomato slices into precise triangles. When breakfast is over, he helps Alfred wash dishes and then slips away just as the Waynes are starting to stir. He returns to the study and the desk he's beginning to think of as "his" and begins a new project. Bruce finds him later and manages to distract him with the prospect of a snowball war.  
  
The night of Christmas Eve is spent in the main den, watching every holiday-related movie in the Waynes' not inconsiderable media library, eating caramel apples and drinking hot chocolate. Tony and Bruce argue over what cookies to leave Santa. Bruce's mother suggests they leave carrots and celery because Santa could stand to watch his weight a little, but Bruce and Bruce's father reject that idea with almost identical looks of horror.  
  
Bruce's father insists, "Santa likes those M &M cookies the best."  
  
Tony falls asleep while a bell rings in an angel's wings on the big screen and wakes to an insistent poke in the side. He rolls and finds himself nose-to-nose with Bruce, who's already out of bed and standing next to Tony, eyes wide and full of excitement.  
  
"It's Christmas!" Bruce crows and literally drags Tony from bed, catching him before he can face-plant onto the floor and hauling him to his feet and pulling him toward Bruce's parent's bedroom.  
  
It _is_ Christmas, but only just. The sky is barely light and even _Tony_ doesn't want to be awake, yet. Unfortunately, gone is the drowsy, I-hate-mornings Bruce, replaced with a maniac intent on getting everyone up _right now_. Bruce's parents are resistant to the idea, but Alfred comes in bearing coffee and hot chocolate with a peppermint stick in each cup on a silver tray and forestalls the threat of a riot. Eventually, everyone's up, though Bruce's parents are sleep-mussed and lazy-eyed and wrapped in dressing gowns.  
  
Santa has been to the house, the plate of cookie crumbs irrefutable proof.  
  
Alfred puts on a record in an old fashioned kind of record player. Bing Crosby croons and Bruce begins passing out presents. Tony gets a gift form Bruce, one from each of Bruce's parents and one from Santa. Tony fingers the bright wrapping paper, enjoying the anticipation, and then freezing with nerves when Bruce finds the first of Tony's gifts for the family, passing it to his father.  
  
Bruce's father dives in without preamble, making a delighted sound when he lifts the origami crown out of Tony's careful wrapping. He puts it on immediately and then shows off for Bruce's mother, light catching on the alternating red and gold foil. She smiles and says, "Very apt."  
  
Tony feels the knot in his chest loosen, feeling easy enough to open one of his own gifts.  
  
From Bruce's mother there's a thick packet of beautiful paper, cut in squares specifically for origami and a book on more advanced designs. From Bruce's father there's an exactly detailed model kit of a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird.  
  
Bruce's mother looks prettily pleased at her gift of tiny origami flowers strung together in a necklace and bracelet. She thanks Tony and gives him a soft kiss on the top of his head which he finds he doesn't mind, and then gets her to help him put them on before he returns to his own gifts.  
  
Tony's gift from Bruce is a thick book on the theory and current research into artificial intelligence. Tony is lost almost immediately in the dense text. There's a lot of it that he doesn't understand, but what he does understand in fascinating. He's studying a diagram when Bruce opens his gift from Tony and almost misses the sound of fascinated appreciation that the older boy makes.  
  
"Oh, Bruce," Bruce's mother says. "Look at that!"  
  
Tony glances up to see Bruce standing on top of the couch cushions so that he has room to hold up and display the mobile that Tony's constructed for him.  
  
"Bats?" Bruce's father says, amused. "That's not very Christmas-y."  
  
The thing is, Tony only knows so many shapes, and most of them are girlish things and he didn't want to give Bruce butterflies or lady bugs. The whole house is decorated with his and Bruce's paper aircraft experiments, so it seems repetitive to make a gift of them.  
  
Tony doesn't know what his expression looks like, but he can feel his lower lip wobble and his cheeks get hot. Bruce and Bruce's father look alarmed and Bruce's mother puts her foot down on Bruce's father's toes.  
  
"Er," says Bruce's father. "What I mean to say is—bats! How perfect. How wonderful! Who doesn't like bats? I certainly like them."  
  
"Yes, dearheart," Bruce's mother says to Tony with a great deal of sweetness as she turns a warm smile on him. "It's lovely."  
  
"It's the best thing ever!" Bruce declares and wraps an arm around Tony, pulling him close. Tony beams at him, prickly disappointment turning into joy, and that is that.  
  
Bruce's mother dons a red and green Christmas apron and makes breakfast for all of them, including Alfred. Everyone chooses their favorite plate and cup from a walk-in pantry stacked high with ceramic and glass. Tony chooses red and gold glass plate with sharp geometric shapes in black and a square, clear glass mug. Bruce chooses a cup and plate set, both dense black ceramic with a yellow rim. Then all five of them sit down at a small round table in one of the cozier dining rooms, eating off mismatched plates and enjoying the pale light that shines in through a large bay window. Outside, snow lays bright across the broad expanse of the Wayne Estate.  
  
When breakfast is finished, Bruce and Bruce's father take Tony outside and attempt to teach him how to ski. When they learn that Tony's feet are not nearly as nimble as his fingers, Bruce's father brings out a set of sleds and Tony and Bruce spend the rest of the day testing all the hills around the Wayne estate for the best sledding location.  
  
They get called in for dinner, which is simple but good turkey soup with rice. Afterward Bruce's father sits them on his lap together in a large overstuffed chair and reads "The Night Before Christmas" because it is, apparently, Wayne tradition to read it the day _after_. He falls asleep halfway through naming the reindeer and Bruce takes over, finishing the rest of the poem from memory, flipping pages so Tony can look at the detailed illustrations. Bruce's mom breezes in, her hair down, wearing a dressing gown and fuzzy slippers and snaps a picture before anyone notices that she's holding a camera.  Then she sweeps Tony up to her hip as Bruce clambers down from his father's lap.  
  
"Bedtime?" she says, jiggling Tony a little and grinning at him. She smells like apples and cinnamon and dish soap.  
  
Bruce is carefully taking off his father's reading glasses, but he mumbles an affirmative and then grabs a blanket, throwing it over his father, who sleeps through it all.  
  
Tony holds himself carefully, trying to balance without causing too much fuss. "Where's Alfred?"  
  
"Hm. Finishing the dishes, probably."  
  
"I need to see him."  
  
She considers him curiously, but doesn't question. "All right. Do you want us to walk you to the kitchen?"  
  
"No, I can find it."  
  
He doesn't squirm to get down, instead waiting patiently until she sets him on his feet. Bruce steps up beside him with his arms out and they switch places, Tony moving back as Bruce's mother picks him up and sets him on her hip.  
  
"Oof, darling. You're getting so big!" They flash identical grins at each other. "Don't take too long, dearheart," she calls after Tony as he makes his way toward the door.  
  
"I won't," he promises.  
  
He has to stop by his study and pick up a final present before heading to the kitchen. Alfred is, indeed, there, wearing a frilly white apron with absolutely no sense of self-consciousness, his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in dishwater.  
  
"Master Anthony," he says when he spots Tony, a note of surprise in his voice.  
  
Tony swallows, suddenly nervous all over again. He holds up his gift and the wrapping paper crinkles as he clenches his fingers a little too much. "Merry Christmas."  
  
Alfred turns to face Tony as he dries his hands on his apron, his face settling into gentle lines. "Thank you, Master Anthony. How very thoughtful."  
  
Tony ducks his head a little and watches anxiously as Alfred takes the package from his hands and unwraps it with delicate skill, not ripping any of the paper or breaking any ribbon. When Alfred pulls the glass bottle full of tiny paper stars free Tony almost wants to take it back. It's a silly thing. Why did he think Alfred would want something like that? Alfred is a very tidy, practical person, not given to collecting clutter or indulging whimsy.  
  
But Alfred's expression has warmed into a soft smile, moving from his usual patient fondness into actual pleasure.  
  
"Lucky stars," Tony blurts.  
  
"Yes," Alfred agrees.  
  
"For luck," Tony adds and then bites his lip at the stupidity of stating the obvious.  
  
"Yes, I know," Alfred says and crouches down. He holds out an arm and Tony only hesitates a moment before tucking himself into a gentle embrace. "When I was a little boy, my father was called to war. My mother made lucky stars for him, to bring him home. She had me help her. She said that if we could make a thousand, he would come home safely."  
  
"That doesn't sound logical."  
  
"Love rarely is."  
  
"Did it work? Did he come home?"  
  
Alfred squeezes him and smiles. "Yes."  
  
Tony puts his arms around Alfred's neck and hugs him back, a little tentative, and finds himself smiling, too. Then he looks at the little bottle Alfred holds in his free hand.  
  
"I didn't make one thousand."  
  
"I don't have any wishes I currently need answered, so I think this is the perfect amount."  
  
"Where are they, now? Your parents."  
  
"Long gone."  
  
And by that, Tony knows he means "dead," something his father had once explained to him. Tony's father dislikes using softer words to disguise facts.  
  
"I'm sorry," Tony says, because a nanny had once told him that was the polite thing to do.  
  
"I rarely think of it anymore, Master Anthony, but thank you."  
  
Tony yawns in the middle of saying, "You're welcome" and Alfred's eyes twinkle.  
  
"Shall I accompany you to Master Bruce's room? I dare say that it's about time for bed."  
  
Projects finished and mission accomplished, Tony's body is finally shutting down. Alfred begins to pull away to stand and Tony tightens his arms, tucking his face into Alfred's shoulder. After a moment, Alfred shifts to hold Tony more securely and when he stands up he lifts Tony with him, settling him on his hip. Tony doesn't usually like being carried, but in this moment he wants to make an exception.  
  
Alfred pauses to set his gift down on the counter top and then supports Tony with both arms as he carries Tony down the hallway. Alfred smells like laundry detergent and faintly of wood smoke, and Tony breathes in, relaxing slowly.  
  
"Thank you for my gift, Master Anthony."  
  
Tony murmurs a _you're welcome_ and rubs his cheek into the scratchiness of Alfred's shirt.  
  
"Though it saddens me that I haven't anything to give you in return," Alfred adds. His tone says he’s open to suggestion.  
  
"I don't need anything," Tony insists. He makes sure he states it clearly, so that Alfred knows for certain.  
  
"Well, if ever you think of anything you need, please tell me and I'll do my utmost to obtain it."  
  
"Okay," Tony says agreeably.  
  
Bruce's mother is standing by the door to Bruce's bedroom and she smiles at them when she sees them, her hand gently ruffling Tony's hair when they're close enough. There's a neatly executed hand-off, and then he's being carried by Bruce's mother—to the bathroom to brush his teeth and then to Bruce's bed. Bruce has already cocooned himself in the quilts, but he stirs as Tony settles beside him.  
  
"Everything good?" Bruce asks, words slurred by sleepiness.  
  
Tony smiles and says, "Yes."  
  
When the time comes for Tony to go home, there's a minor mutiny. Bruce yells and breaks things on purpose, being horrible to anyone who comes too close or tries to reason with him. Tony is tidying his room, putting his collection of paper airplanes in the boxes Alfred found for him, attempting to ignore Bruce. There's a knot of misery in his chest, but he's determined to ignore that, too. Bruce pushes a just-organized box off the bed and onto the ground. Tony starts crying and is horrified to find that he can't seem to stop.  
  
Tony isn't sure what happens next, but one second he's hiccupping, trying to swallow sobs, dragging his fist across his eyes to rub out the tears and the next he's flat on his back, Bruce solid and heavy on top of him, holding him tight.  
  
"Don't cry," Bruce says, voice muffled, face pressed to Tony's shoulder. "Please don't cry. I'm sorry."  
  
Tony should feel trapped, held down, but he doesn't. He feels comforted, like Bruce is his favorite, though very heavy, blanket. He feels himself relax as he obeys Bruce's voice, feels the tension drain out of both of them.  
  
Then Bruce sits up and takes Tony's hand and together they run to their favorite guest room to hide in the wardrobe. Tony sits in the dark, listening as Bruce spins tails of how they're going to evade the adults, live in the walls like fairy tale creatures, stealing food and playing tricks, or develop super powers and fly far far away. About how Bruce will keep Tony _forever_ and never ever let him go.  
  
But, eventually, Bruce runs out of stories and they're both hungry and neither one of them really _truly_ believes in magic. People _can_ get superpowers, but it's a rare thing and not to be relied upon. Not for something this important.  
  
So they find Alfred and ask him for lunch, take the sandwiches back to the guest room and spread maps out on the floor to plot the distance between their houses. Tony gets out his ruler and measures precise lines. Bruce plans several alternative routes in case of flooding or rock slides or roaming bands of robbers. Something that could be possible, judging from the way Bruce's father grumbles about rising crime rates all the time.  
  
"There," Bruce says, capping his marker with a small flourish. "Now, if you ever need me you can just come to me. Or I'll come to you."  
  
"You will?" Tony asks. He looks over the maps, at the wide space between their two houses and can't imagine anyone crossing that distance for him.  
  
"Always," Bruce says.  
  
In that moment, Tony believes him.  
  
~~  
  
January is bleak, full of neutral colors and streamlined edges. His parents haven't hired anyone new to be his nanny and Tony's father declares him to be old enough to start learning to take care of himself. Tony's mother hasn't come home, yet, lingering in Cancun where it's warm while Tony's father has returned so he can oversee time sensitive projects in his lab.  
  
Tony spends the first week hungry and cold. He figures out how to reach some of the food in the kitchen, but the door of the huge, sleek metal refrigerator and a lot of the cabinets have coded locks on them. Tony eats dry cereal and thinks longingly of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, of Chef Anton's hot chocolate and Alfred's gentle hands, of Bruce's parents, of _Bruce_.  
  
He cries, once, curled up under his impersonal blankets, surrounded by the blank walls of his room, muffling the sound in his pillow, terrified that his father might hear.  
  
Then he gets up, wipes his eyes and his nose and builds a rigging for the refrigerator door. The oven is a monstrous, complicated thing that Tony's not willing to tackle, but at least he has milk, now, and cheeses and fruit.  
  
Next he finds the stashes of magazines that his parents keep around the house, in baskets under a coffee table, in some of the guest bathrooms, and carefully tears out the vivid photographs of night skies and rocket ships, Africa's vast grasslands and anything else that looks interesting. He finds a stapler and, considering this the simplest and most effective way of doing things—two markers of a good engineer, his father has told him—begins stapling the pictures to his walls, as high as he can reach, and when that's not high enough, he uses a chair.  
  
It takes him a whole day of wandering and careful experimentation to find the thermostat that controls the temperature for his room. It takes him three more days of methodical testing to find the correct code to log in and gain access to the controls.  
  
Later that day, Tony's father slams open his door and demands to know what the hell he's been up to. The environmental settings for Tony's room were, apparently, connected to one of the labs as well and Tony's ruined a whole day's worth of data.  
  
Tony's ensconced on his bed, surrounded by several computer science texts, the book Bruce gave him for Christmas open on his lap. He was trying to puzzle through the first few chapters, using the other books as reference. In the face of his father's wrath, he wants to hide the book, but knows it will only draw his father's attention to it. If his father's angry enough about this, he'll take the book out of spite. Tony knows this from experience.  
  
So, instead, he sits up straight and sticks his chin out and says, clearly, "That doesn't sound very efficient."  
  
Tony's father stares at him for a second, and Tony can see that violence is still a possibility, though his father's momentum has slowed and now it's no longer an absolute. Sometimes the direct approach works, and sometimes it just makes things worse. Possibly, today is the former.  
  
"Brat," Tony's father says, though it sounds more a nickname than a curse word. Then he takes a look around. "What the hell did you do to your _walls_?"  
  
"Decorated."  
  
Tony's father looks like he's about to start shouting again when a low, musical voice interrupts. "Oh, there you are."  
  
Both he and his father freeze, but then his father's face softens and Tony uses his momentary distraction to stuff Bruce's book under the covers. Tony's mother steps into view, lovely and smartly dressed in an elegant cream blouse and midnight blue pencil skirt, her hair swept up, off her shoulders, revealing the long, slender column of her neck. She tips her head and accepts a kiss from Tony's father, gracing him with a hint of genuine smile. She doesn't look at Tony.  
  
"Your son has done something to the kitchen," she reports.  
  
Tony's father gives him a dire look and Tony refuses to quail. It never helps. "What," he demands.  
  
"You should see for yourself," she says.  
  
So Tony's marched to the kitchen with his father and mother and Tony's father gets a look at the rigging that Tony's made to open the refrigerator. Tony's father stares at it for a full thirty seconds, then a corner of his mouth quirks and his eyes crinkle and he laughs and laughs. Tony's mother looks on with a soft expression, and though her eyes never stray to Tony, her fingertips do drift down to brush gently against his shoulder, once.  
  
Tony gets punished, anyway, though it's probably a lot lighter than it would've been if Tony hadn't been as amusing. Tony's father gives him a choice: the belt or the closet. Tony chooses the belt, because brief pain is preferable to agonizingly lonely, boring darkness. Tony's father puts him in the closet because sometimes it doesn't matter which Tony prefers. Tony's father says these are life lessons worth learning and someday Tony will thank him.  
  
This time, Tony has the memory of Bruce's book to keep him company, and when Tony's dad finally opens the door again, Tony isn't fighting tears like he usually is, and Tony's father gives him a proud smile and declares that he's going to teach Tony to make a circuit board. He's clearly grown up enough to learn.  
  
It's a difficult thing, much more difficult than it looks on the outside, and the hardest part is holding his hands steady to solder the tiny, delicate wires. Tony gets yelled at and cuffed more than once, but progress is steady, nonetheless, and it's worth it, to gain access to one of his father's labs.  
  
When his father leaves him without supervision, which happens more and more as Tony's skill grows, Tony begins raiding supplies—small things, things that his father has in multiples of tens or more—to begin his own project. He's sure that his father notices, but he doesn't say anything and Tony doesn't offer any information on his own.  
  
Tony spends January with oft-burnt fingers, developing his engineer callouses. He and his father have similar minds when they work, their focused narrowed down to the metal and the liberal application of electricity and adhesive—usually not at the same time. Both can go for long stretches without eating or sleeping, though his father has more endurance in both, much to Tony's chagrin.  
  
Those times when tiny circuits and inductors start to blur, Tony retreats to his newly decorated room and takes up reading Bruce's book or practices folding origami, trying to figure out more patterns that the Waynes might like. Though he feels less of a stranger in his own house these days, these quiet moments are still his favorite part of the day, when he feels a warm peacefulness. Tony realizes that his mind is fully engaged in his father’s lab, but his heart is still at Wayne Manor.  
  
~~  
  
It's summer by the time Tony returns to Gotham, and each subsequent visit is longer, until eventually Tony spends more time at Wayne Manor than in the Stark building in New York. Tony's books stack on top of Bruce's. His paper creations, which eventually veer into metal and wire, are scattered throughout the house, until Bruce commandeers a second room and declares it their "lab," moving all his experiments and Tony's creations into it, organizing them meticulously.  
  
Tony isn't opposed to order, but doesn't adhere to it with the same rigid standards that Bruce does. They fight. They make up. Alfred brings them cookies as a reward every time, until he figures out that they sometimes fight just so that they can get cookies.  
  
By the time Tony turns five, he knows the names of all the many people who come and go through the Wayne household. Susan is the maid who leaves one of the hallway lights on for him at night, because she knows he often slips out of bed when he has an idea and wander down to the lab to sketch it out or mock up a rough prototype. Ricky is one of the groundskeepers, but will carry heavy things for Tony with an unwavering amused patience no matter how many times a day Tony asks. Patrice, who dresses in a sharp suit and keeps business records for Wayne Corp, has an amazing head for math and they've had whole conversations in nothing but numbers. Aubrey, the Wayne's mechanic, lets Tony hand her tools and talks him through maintenance and repairs, promising to let him help when he's older.  
  
Maurice is Bruce's tutor. The first time he gives Tony math homework, it's on a whim. Tony's finished a new design on a model airplane and wants to show Bruce, but Bruce is taking a test, so Tony hovers restlessly just inside the doorway to the study room until Maurice calls him over and gives him a sheet full of math equations. Maurice likely does it so that he'll stop distracting Bruce, but Tony genuinely likes math, so he finishes it. And the next, and the next after that. By the time Bruce is finished with his test, Tony's completed ten worksheets.  
  
After that, Bruce's mother asks if Tony would like to join Bruce's lessons, and Tony says "Yes."  
  
He and Bruce are pretty evenly matched. Tony can sometimes be quicker on the uptake, but Bruce has more focus. Every time they get a perfect score, which is often, Bruce's parents coo over it and pin it to the refrigerator with a magnet. Eventually, that gets so covered that Alfred has trouble getting to the actual food, and they put up a giant tack board to hold all the papers. Bruce keeps them organized by date and subject. Sometimes, Tony sneaks one out of alignment, just because, and whenever Tony's father notices he grins a bit and ruffles Tony's hair, and then plays innocent when Bruce discovers the sabotage.  
  
Sometimes, quiet and furtive in the middle of the night, Tony folds paper stars at his desk, on the side of the "lab" designated just for him, and wishes very hard that the Waynes will keep him forever.  
  
~~  
  
As much as they get teased for being inseparable, Tony isn't with Bruce all the time. Sometimes, Tony has to go be with his family if they're going someplace public, and he has to behave in front of the cameras, which is dull. Also, once a year, Tony's father runs him through a series of aptitude tests to check his mental and cognitive development. It's a rigorous process that usually takes about a week, and that's where Tony is the night that Thomas and Martha Wayne are killed.  
  
Tony doesn't hear about it until much later, when he's already wound tight with tension because Bruce hasn't called for days and his parents keep having furtive, hissing arguments when they think he isn't paying attention.  
  
His parents have never hidden their quarrels from him before, always loud and upfront about any disagreement between them. Sometimes it's nice to be honest about things, but usually it just means that he's forced to take sides.  
  
Eventually, it's his mother that comes and sits across from him, her hands folded in her lap, her expression solemn. It's her you have to _pay attention_ , Tony, this is _important_ look, like they're running another test. Tony is immediately alert, sitting up straight, mind at the ready. Then she tells him that Mr. and Mrs. Wayne are dead, and the world slows to a stop.  
  
Tony doesn't understand, not really. There's a ringing in his ears and his fingertips feel cold, and there's a dull, impossibly huge pressure behind his eyes.  
  
Bruce is ten when he loses his parents. Tony is eight, and it's the first time he attempts the journey between their houses alone and on foot, because he's not going to wait for his parents to come to a consensus about whether or not he should be allowed to see Bruce. Bruce needs him, so Tony needs to go.  
  
He doesn't get far. His mother—careful coils of hair wrapped in a scarf, makeup impeccable, mouth a tense, deep red bow—finds him. As always, she looks like a movie star, but for the first time Tony can remember, she also looks tired and drawn. She leans out of the car and offers her hand, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, expression blank. He climbs up next to her without touching her, but then she folds him carefully against her side as the driver takes them the rest of the way to the Wayne mansion in silence. It's odd. Her scent is unfamiliar; her perfume tickles his nose, but he leans against her, anyway, and feels marginally better.  
  
When they reach the mansion, Alfred answers the door, looking grayer and older than Tony's ever seen him. He greets them politely enough, but there's a chill in the air that seems to settle on Tony's shoulders, makes him step closer to his mother and take her offered hand as they step inside to wait in the one of the front studies. Tony sits in a chair that's too big, his feet dangling off the ground as he stares at a grandfather clock that isn't moving.  
  
Eventually, Alfred comes back, and this time his voice holds at least some kind of emotion—not a good or happy emotion, but somehow better than the hollow nothing of his first greeting—as he informs them that Master Bruce isn't interested in seeing them.  
  
At first, Tony doesn't understand, so he says, "When will he want to see me? After dinner?"  
  
Alfred hesitates and that sad— _he's sad_ , Tony realizes—expression gets worse. "I'm not sure, Master Anthony."  
  
"Tomorrow?" Tony presses.  
  
But his only answer is, "I'm not sure. I apologize, Master Anthony."  
  
Tony can feel something hot and heavy squeeze his chest as he stares into Alfred's dark gaze. It's painful, climbing up his throat and cheeks, prickling behind his eyes.  
  
"Thank you, Alfred," his mother says, eventually, and Tony snaps his eyes to her, betrayal and frustration threatening to break apart the dam of his thoughts, drown him in feeling. _Foolish, sentimental weakness_ , his father would say. "Can you give us a moment? We can see ourselves out."  
  
"Of course, madam," Alfred says and then he's gone. Tony wants to call him back. He suddenly and desperately doesn't want to be here with only his mother for comfort.  
  
She reaches for him. Tony tenses and knows that if she touches him all his rebellion will spill over and make things worse. He wants to scream. Not words, not reasoned argument, like his parents have taught him. He just wants to howl his pain to the sky and make everyone listen, make everyone suffer as much as he's suffering.  
  
She hesitates with fingertips hovering near his shoulder, and then drops her hand.  
  
"Grief is...sometimes a very private emotion," she says. "Do you understand, Tony? You'll get to see Bruce, eventually. But until he's ready, you'll have to be patient. Can you do that?"  
  
Grief. Tony finally puts a name to what's been trying to crush him since he heard about Bruce's mom and dad, that great and terrible thing he managed to ignore while he was focused on getting to Bruce. But now Bruce doesn't want to see him and there's nothing holding back that awful feeling.  
  
Tony is not like Bruce. He doesn't want to face something this intense, this huge, all by himself. But for Bruce, for Bruce he'll do it. He'll wait. He'll wait forever, if he has to.  
  
Tony doesn't see Bruce again until the funeral.  
  
It feels like a forever-long time, though it isn't. Strangely, it also feels as if time hasn't moved at all. Tony has been a wreck at home, lashing out with tantrums, unable to focus on his projects, being cruel to his mother who, in turn, has been kinder to him than she has ever been before.  
  
"It's okay," she keeps telling him, while his father retreats to his labs in a show of stony disapproval. "It's okay to feel these things. It's okay to be angry; it's okay to cry."  
  
Tony doesn't understand. He doesn't understand _anything_. Nothing feels okay, and his mother's unusual patience just makes Tony feel worse, caught up in a spiral of anger and guilt until he thinks he'll never feel better again. He can't let go, and can't get past this, and there's a hot knot in his throat that's getting so tight that it's starting to constrict words. He's afraid that, when he sees Bruce, everything he needs to say won't come out.  
  
The world isn't moving. Tony's stuck in this horrible moment and can't see a way out.  
  
The day of the funeral is overcast and gloomy, making all the solemn colors seem darker, making the whole world look like a bruise. Tony and his mother are late, his mother full of fury that makes all her edges razorblade sharp. It took a three hour long shouting match with Tony's father before they were allowed to come, and even then it took Tony's mother breaking several pieces of lab equipment and threatening to break even more before Tony's father let them out of the house. They slip in toward the back of the crowd and take a seat, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.  
  
Tony almost doesn't recognize Bruce, his friend seeming somehow diminished, small and silent, standing near Alfred. He's holding Alfred's hand, but there's a distance between them and it seems deliberate on Bruce's part, like he can't stand to have anyone inside his space.  
  
His back is to Tony, and that's all Tony sees—his friend's back, the set of his small shoulders in the stiff black jacket, the gulf of space between them that seems to grow wider without either one of them moving.  
  
In the end, Tony doesn't get to say anything, never gets to test whether the hot-heavy feeling squeezing his throat shut will ease around Bruce, because Bruce leaves after the service without speaking to anyone, Alfred so quick and efficient about slipping them away that Tony almost doesn't see them leave, lost in the shuffle of people at the back. When he notices, he catches his mother's arm and tugs.  
  
"Tony," she says, sharply.  
  
He lets go, startled at his own audacity, enough for the muddled sadness miring this thoughts to clear, and to blurt, "Bruce—he's leaving."  
  
"I see that."  
  
Her tone does not encourage dissent, but it's important so Tony presses. "I need to talk to him."  
  
"You can't."  
  
"I have to!" his voice rises above the general murmur of the crowd. There are people looking at him, now. Tony thinks that might be a reporter scribbling on a notepad in a corner—his father taught him how to spot them so as to be extra sure not to do anything that might embarrass himself. Tony can't even make himself care. There's nothing more important right now than being able to see Bruce.  
  
His mother's eyes flash, and Tony braces himself, fists clenching. Then she exhales, her lovely-sharp features softening a little as she folds herself gracefully until her gaze is level with his. "Do you remember when I said that you need to be patient? Bruce will call for you when he's ready."  
  
Her voice is kind, but that doesn't sooth emotions that Tony can barely recognize scraping the inside of his brain raw, pushing out words that are jagged and rough. "You're only saying that because you don't want to help me. You don't even care."  
  
Tony regrets saying it almost immediately, as his mother's face closes off into icy composure and she straightens, but his teeth are clenched so hard against the rising threat of tears that he can't apologize, and he doubts it would make much difference if he did. He can recognize that look on his mother's face. It's much more familiar to him than this more recent gentleness.  
  
"That's right," she says, quiet and cold, "because rude, ungrateful creatures don't deserve my help."  
  
Tony keeps his face blank, though he can feel hot tears spill over his cheeks with the effort, his fists so tight that his nails make little crescents of pain on his palms.  
  
"We're going home," his mother announces with a turn on her heel worthy of a runway model. "And if you make any more trouble for me, I'll tell your father what a spectacle you've made of yourself."  
  
It is not an idle threat and his father's retribution, as angry as he already was when they left, would be—substantial. Tony scrubs his face quickly and follows his mother out. They ride in the car together, but Tony might as well be back at Wayne Manor for all the mind she pays him. Tony prefers it this way, or at least he tells himself he does. He works on breathing evenly and keeping his mind blank. If he starts crying, he'll be punished for sure, and he can't afford that right now.  
  
New York never really gets dark, not like Gotham, nor do the streets ever really empty of people the way Gotham does after a certain hour. Tony lets his eyes unfocus until the lights are a blur, until he can close his eyes and not see Bruce's mother's smile, Bruce's father's favorite velvet smoking jacket, Bruce's strange stillness, so unlike the energetic boy Tony knows as his friend.  
  
The Stark building is cold and dark, and his mother heads toward her rooms without a backward glance. Tony watches her go, the long line of her neck paler than the surrounding darkness of the hallway, her black dress, her dark stockings and shoes. Tony watches until the shadows swallow her, knowing it will probably be a long time before he sees her again.  
  
Then he goes to his room, changes his clothes, grabs the backpack Bruce helped pack during one of the coldest days during last year's long, cold winter, and slips out, heading back to Gotham.  
  
Tony can't ask Bill, their usual driver, to take him because he doesn't want to get Bill in trouble. The driver before Bill had given Tony candy for Halloween once and Tony hadn't seen him again after that. He likes Bill and doesn't want him to have to go away. In any case, it should be fine. He and Bruce have planned for this. Tony has money hidden, and a subway card that Bruce's mother bought him for emergencies, and an internal map with several alternative routes planned by Bruce, who always thinks there should be a plan B through F, just in case.  
  
Tony is eight the first time he makes his way to Wayne Manor from New York and when he looks back on it, he'll be amazed at how he managed it without getting stopped by anyone, hostile or well-meaning both. In the moment, though, Tony's heart is beating so hard he can hear it in his head, feel the pulse of it in his toes, and he struggles to blend in, wearing cheap street clothes, brands that Tony's parents would never stoop to and had to be hidden from them, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.  
  
It's not until Tony's at the door to Wayne Manor, trees looming monstrously above him, the sky a sickly orange-grey with light pollution, that he realizes that he traveled a very long distance but hasn't figured out what he's going to say.  
  
When Tony rings the bell, Alfred opens the door so quickly that Tony suspects, later, that he was possibly waiting for Tony to show up.  
  
"Master Anthony," Alfred says, sounding surprised but not _that_ surprised, the lines in his face deeper in the dark.  
  
Tony takes a breath. Then he bursts into tears.  
  
Alfred scoops him up immediately, even though he's probably too big to lift easily. Tony clings to him, buries his face in Alfred's shoulder, mortified but unable to stop, surprised by the force at which the sobs rip out of him. Alfred doesn't shush him or tell him to be brave and quiet, he just carries Tony further into the house, murmuring softly about how it's going to be all right. Tony doesn't think that's possible, but he wants to let go of cold, driving logic and just believe that somehow, through magic Tony absolutely knows doesn't exist, Alfred will making the world okay again.  
  
Eventually, Alfred sets him down so that he's sitting on something soft, and when he opens his eyes he recognizes his old bedroom, one that's seen little use since Tony started sleeping most nights in Bruce's bed. Tony tries to slip back down to the floor, struggling a little when Alfred holds him back.  
  
"Bruce—" he says.  
  
"Is asleep," Alfred says firmly. "And I would ask that you refrain from waking him, as he hasn't slept in longer than is healthy."  
  
Tony chews his lower lip and then makes himself stop. Nervous habits are for people who aren't Starks. "I need to talk to him."  
  
"Yes," Alfred agrees, which takes a lot of the fight out of Tony, and he slumps a little. Alfred sits beside him and waits until Tony leans into him to put an arm around Tony's shoulders.

He speaks softly to the crown of Tony's head. "As this conversation is likely going to be a difficult one, it will be better done when both of you have had a decent sleep. Wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"I guess," Tony murmurs, scrubbing his eyes with his fists to rub the last of the tears away and to try to keep them from drooping. The safety of Alfred's embrace makes him realize just how exhausted he is.  
  
"Now, I'll inform your parents of your whereabouts and—"  
  
"No!" Tony gasps, abruptly awake. He looks up at Alfred beseechingly and receives a raised eyebrow. "Please, Alfred. They won't even know I'm gone. I'll go back in the morning as soon as the trains start again. Just—don't tell them."  
  
"You know I can't do that, Master Anthony."  
  
Tears are threatening again, and Tony tries to suppress them, frustrated with his own lack of control. "They'll make me leave."  
  
"I won't let them." For an instant, Alfred is so fierce that it surprises the distressed right out of Tony.  
  
After a pause, Tony says, "All right."  
  
"Very good. Get ready for bed and I'll make that phone call." Alfred stands up and walks briskly from the room with a last, "And if you need me, Master Anthony, do not hesitate to call upon me."  
  
Tony listens to his muffled footsteps retreating down the hall until everything is quiet. Then he collapses back onto the bed, arms out to break his fall, legs dangling over the side, and looks up at the shadowed ceiling, the lamp on the bedside table casting long shapes with warm yellow light. He can only stay anxious for so long before coping mechanisms kick in. The stillness of the room sinks through his skin, a numbness blotting out the restless anxiety scratching at his nerves. Mrs. Wayne is the one who taught him how to absorb the quiet— _was_ the one—  
  
Tony tries to veer away from that thought, but he isn't fast enough, and the grief rises up, not as violent as it was earlier, but just as undeniable. And here, where there's no one else to see, Tony stops fighting it. Tears slip backwards, cool on his temples and into his hairline. He blinks as his vision blurs, eyelashes sticking together as he tries not to make too much noise.  He presses his hands over his mouth to muffle his stuttering gasps. There's something almost cleansing in the release, this time. The house settles with little creaks. Outside, the leaves whisper to the wind.  
  
Tony doesn't mean to fall asleep, but somehow, he does.  
  
He wakes and doesn't know where he is for a moment, but then he sees Bruce sitting next to him, sees Bruce's back because Bruce is sitting at the edge of the bed, motionless and silent. It's dark outside and the room seems like its own little space, removed from the world. Tony is reminded of when they were little and hid in the wardrobe and told each other stories about pirates and princes and heroes that always saved the day.  
  
He sits up carefully and looks at Bruce. Bruce doesn't turn toward Tony or even really acknowledge that he's there at all, just stares straight ahead, expression empty. Tony _still_ doesn't know what to say. So, instead, he does the only thing he can think of, something Bruce did for him long ago. He lays his hand on the bed between them, palm up.  
  
There's a moment, long enough that Tony begins to second guess his instinct, and then Bruce stirs, lifts his hand and laces their fingers together, holding on hard enough that Tony's hand aches a little, but he squeezes back and doesn't let go.  
  
They stay that way until a new day starts to brighten the room, and then Tony says, his voice hoarse and too loud, "I wish I'd been there."  
  
Bruce shakes his head. "You couldn't have stopped it." He pulls away to press his hands against his eyes, and his voice hitches, though he hasn't cried in all the time they've sat here. "I couldn't stop it. I can't make it _stop_. I just keep—keep seeing them and. I don't know what to do."  
  
"We'll think of something," Tony decides. He's good at this—problem solving. It's a relief to have some kind of focus, something he can always rely on Bruce to provide.  
  
"No," Bruce says, dropping his hands and looking at Tony with eyes so fierce that they're almost frightening.  
  
Cold jolts through Tony's stomach. "What?"  
  
"I can't—you can't help. If you do you could get hurt and then I."  
  
Tony waits for him to finish the sentence, but Bruce glares at the closed door and says nothing, so Tony offers his opinion. "That's stupid. We're better together."  
  
"I'm not strong enough to protect you, yet."  
  
Annoyance surges up, from some place in Tony's heart that's made of iron, of steel, of a titanium alloy that he hasn't invented yet. "Maybe it's _my_ job to protect _you_."  
  
Bruce gives him a startled look.  
  
"Let me stay," Tony says.  
  
"I'm leaving," Bruce says at almost the same time.  
  
That derails Tony all over again. "What?"  
  
"I'm leaving. I can't stay here. I need—there has to be someone who can help me."  
  
" _I_ can help you."  
  
"An adult."  
  
Tony scoffs. "You're _ten_. How are you going to get any adult to help you with—what? Revenge?"  
  
"Yes." There's a grim violence underlying Bruce's body language that makes Tony want to back off, but he holds his ground with a stubbornness that would've both infuriated his father and also made him proud. "And the _how_ is easy. I have money. Lots of it."  
  
That is, unfortunately, a good point.  
  
"Take me with you, then."  
  
"I can't."  
  
Tony draws himself up to his full, admittedly limited, height. "Bruce."  
  
"I _can't_ , Tony."  
  
"Why _not_?"  
  
"Because you still have parents that'll come looking for you!"  
  
The ringing echo of Bruce's words ripple between them. Tony swallows and Bruce looks away, his hands clenching and unclenching on his knees.  
  
"They wouldn't even care that I was gone," Tony says finally, subdued.  
  
"They would as soon as Howard needed you for a photo-op. And then there would be big trouble. You know it's true."  
  
"It isn't fair."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I loved them, too."  
  
Bruce looks at him, and says, even more quietly. "I know." Then he offers his hand, palm up, and Tony knows he's losing the argument even as he presses his palm to Bruce's. "It's not 'forever'. It's just 'for now'. Until I'm strong enough. You have to stay here and just...be safe."  
  
Tony can feel his jaw set mulishly, but he forces out, "Fine."  
  
It's not good enough for Bruce. "Promise me." He uses their joined hands to shake Tony's arm a little in emphasis. "Promise that you won't come after me."  
  
Tony meets Bruce's intense look with one of his own. "Only if _you_ promise you'll come back for me."  
  
For the first time since the funeral, Bruce's face softens with the barest hint of a smile. "Haven't I told you before? Always."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Bruce's hands are gentle as he works the ropes. He's more-or-less ignoring Tony's hysterics, for which Tony's both grateful and resentful. His emotions are all over the place and he can't focus his eyes well, but he thinks, maybe, the high is wearing off a little. At least enough that he can string words together in complete sentences. So he does.  
  
"You're really good with your hands," Tony observes idly. "You know what I'm good with?"  
  
Tony takes the Bruce's silence as permission to keep babbling.  
  
"I'm good at appreciating people who are good with their hands. Really. You should try it. Lay your hands on me some more, is what I'm saying."  
  
"You want me to take advantage of you when you're drugged?"  
  
"Hey," Tony says, and he's sure there was supposed to be more of that sentence, but Bruce leans forward and suddenly Tony can smell winter wind and familiar skin, feels the heat of another body and he loses time. When next he's aware, his leather-fetishist rescuer is dragging him through the corridors of what looks to be a very posh hotel, and Tony should know. He's lived a large portion of his recent life in posh hotels. He drags his hand over the gorgeously detailed embossing of the wallpaper while somewhere to the right Bruce is doing painful-sounding things to an unfortunate guard.  
  
"Are you rescuing me? Is that what's going on?" It's part bratty sarcasm and part actual need for clarification because it feels like he's standing on a waterbed and the lights are sparking tiny rainbows and Tony's not entirely sure of anything, right now.  
  
Bruce swoops toward him, all billowing darkness and grim expression. Or maybe he's just walking normally and Tony's mind is adding drama. It has a tendency to do that.  
  
"You ran afoul of the only slave ring in the area." There's a "I can't believe you're this stupid" in there, somewhere, though Bruce doesn't waste the breath to actually say it.  
  
"Talent." Tony stares at the unconscious body at his feet, studying Bruce's weapon of choice. "I can't believe you have ninja stars shaped like bats."  
  
"Style."  
  
Tony squints at him while he searches for a pithy reply, almost immediately losing track of the conversation, but that's okay because something else pops up to take its place. "Did you come busting in through the window when you rescued me like the loose-cannon cop in a terrible action movie?"  
  
"No."  
  
Tony raises an eyebrow he hopes conveys _I call you on your bullshit_.  
  
Bruce grimaces, but yields. "Glass doors on the balcony."  
  
" _Why_?"  
  
"Fastest way in."  
  
"Okay, so, why are we not leaving the same way?"  
  
Bruce gives him the cold look of "please refrain from talking if you're just going to be an idiot" which he will become famous for in the future, and says, "Do you _want_ to try climbing down eighteen stories of sheer glass?"  
  
Tony frowns. "You need something. Rocket boots, maybe."  
  
Bruce doesn't even justify that with an answer, which is fine because Tony's never needed justification to fill silence with his voice.  
  
"At least a grappling hook," Tony grumbles.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind," Bruce says and kicks a door in.  
  
While Bruce is busy wreaking havoc on innocent architecture to, presumably, clear them a path out, Tony leans his head against cool plaster and tries to stay on his feet. It's a herculean effort. Seriously, Tony thinks it should've been one of the demigod's Labors: slay the Nemean Lion, capture the Cretan Bull, stay upright in this corridor that's somewhere in a hotel in Amsterdam without throwing up or passing out while some guy who maybe-possibly is the love of your life but forgot you existed for six years and is now dressed in a fucking superhero costume plays the rescuing prince.  
  
Fuck, why is this his _life_?  
  
Oh yeah, because sometimes Tony sucks at crisis management. And he also doesn't handle loss well.  
  
Tony hears a sound behind him but can't make himself turn, all his muscles in unpredictable spasms, so it's almost not a surprise when someone grabs him and the barrel of a gun slams up under his chin, pressing into the soft underside. The sudden shift in equilibrium makes Tony's vision swim with black, like a film of oil over his eyes.  
  
The man shouts in something—not English. Dutch? German? The translation portion of Tony's brain must be on the fritz. _Wernicke's area, temporal lobe_ —oh, hello science. Anatomical fact-let. So good of you to be _not helpful_.  
  
Tony really should have been paying attention, because now the guy has let Tony go—although that phrasing's a little gentle for the actual situation, which is that Bruce came around the corner like an avenging angel, cape flaring like wings, and _did something_ , a blur of lethal intent which was somehow conveyed in just the stretch of his arm and a flick of his hand, and the bad guy is writhing and groaning on the ground behind Tony and Tony can smell electricity and singed hair-clothes-flesh.  
  
The thing is, the man was kinda sorta holding Tony upright and now, without that support, Tony sags forward, pitching toward the ground—until he thumps solidly into Bruce's chest.  
  
"Whoa, thanks," Tony says dreamily and slightly muffled, rubbing his face into the swell of pectoral muscle. "High-modulus polyethylene? With—" Tony presses in a little more firmly, "—titanium plating?"  
  
"Imbricated." Bruce tucks his hand around Tony's arm and tugs, pulling him along.  
  
Tony nods and then has to close his eyes for a few moments as the world lurches sideways. He swallows a few times and tells himself very firmly that he's not going to vomit all over Bruce's very well constructed suit.  
  
"For mobility," Bruce adds.  
  
"I know," Tony answers, and if it comes out a bit snappishly, well, Tony's having a bad day. He digs in, trying for something a little lighter. "Shame. Leather would have been sexier."  
  
Bruce pauses and props him up with surprising gentleness. They stand together in almost companionable silence as a patron of the hotel, alerted by all the noise, and rightfully alarmed by all the bodies, runs past them on the way to the exit. Bruce has hidden them in an alcove, somehow finding a concealing spot of shadow in an otherwise well-lit hallway. The man doesn't see them, but Tony sees _him_ , remembers his hands and his mouth and things he doesn't want to think about.  
  
"Get him," Tony says before he even realizes it.  
  
Tony doesn't know what Bruce hears in his voice, but he doesn't hesitate, tangling the man's feet in a bolas and jumping on him before the man even finishes his alarmed shout. Tony closes his eyes against the brutal sounds of an uneven fight. Then there's silence and someone grabs Tony's arm, stopping his slow slump toward the floor, and his chin, which actually does a bit to help Tony's mind focus.  
  
Tony opens his eyes as Bruce tips his head up, fingers splayed against Tony's cheek and curving a little on his jaw.  
  
" _That's_ leather."  
  
"Just the palmar aspect."  
  
"For mobility?"  
  
One corner of Bruce's mouth quirks. "And because leather is sexy."  
  
Tony snorts. "Cute."  
  
Tony considers him, trying not to let his eyes cross. Even this close, the mask hides almost everything. His eyes are blue, but Tony expected that. His smile's a little distant, and quick to flatten back out into a serious line, but Tony expected that, too.  
  
"So what is this?" Tony asks, finally. "What are we doing?"  
  
How Bruce manages to convey _raised eyebrow of doubting your intelligence_ from behind the mask is beyond Tony. "Rescue and extraction."  
  
"Uh-huh. And then what? What's happening?"  
  
The narrowing of Bruce's eyes say _if you don't start making sense, soon, I'm going to go back to punching people in the face and leave you to babble at walls by yourself_.  
  
Tony blinks at him, trying to figure out how to circumvent the bullet-proof barrier of black polyethylene and flowing cape and years and miles that Bruce has built between them and just can't seem to get beyond the unyielding line of his mouth, of his stoic silences.  
  
"You're beating people up for me," Tony tries. "That. That has to mean something. Doesn't it? I mean in, like, screwed-up-person language."  
  
They stare at each other for another few moments, Bruce's hands drifting down Tony's body. It's weirdly impersonal, for being pressed against a wall and felt up—being checked over for injuries, Tony realizes. He blinks some more, and then thinks maybe he should try Morse Code, signal S _OS SOS best friend is being a complete nutcase and refuses to explain self. Not that that's really abnormal, oh god, why is this my life_ with his eyelids.  
  
" _I'm_ screwed up," Tony continues, not really expecting a response. "So you'd think that I could, you know, that I'd be able to figure out these signals you're giving me. I guess I'm just not very practiced in reading you anymore." There's a radiating pain as Bruce's fingers tighten suddenly on Tony's arm.  
  
"I think you're confused and drugged, Mr. Stark. Please try to remain calm and trust me to get us out of here."  
  
"Ow," he protests, giving his rescuer his best _I don't like you right now_ frown-y face, trying not to feel _"Mr. Stark"_ like the dousing of ice water it is.  
  
Bruce eases his grip and pulls Tony and they're moving down the hallway, again, and Tony realizes Bruce isn't going to say anything.  
  
He hasn't seen or heard from Bruce in six years and the asshole is just going to pretend like they have nothing to say to one another. Or maybe he honestly thinks that Tony can't tell, doesn't know who exactly is behind the mask, and isn't that just completely insulting? Tony may not be cognizant enough to put one foot in front of the other with any consistency but his mind, even strapped into the hell's amusement park whirly-gig of benzodiazepines, is coherent enough to do basic math.  
  
Tony will always know Bruce. That is the simplest equation in the world.  
  
They're on stairs, now, turning sharp corners. Tony's clumsy steps sound loud, even though he's barefoot and where did his shoes go? Why the hell are there so many steps? What's wrong with the elevator? But then Tony thinks about a long ride in close quarters, pressed in on all sides by awkward silence and thinks—yeah, stairs aren't so bad.  
  
Bruce leans Tony in a corner of the stairwell, as far away from the railing as possible, and then leaps into— _holyshit—_ empty _goddamned_ air—! Dropping out of sight and—as Tony lurches to the railing to follow his progress—landing two flights down, slamming a just-opening door back in the faces of the men coming through it before opening it again and diving into the fray.  
  
Tony's knees go a little weak—relief or he's going to black out soon. Bruce seems to be holding his own with no problem, even though the bad guys have greater numbers and broader shoulders and very illegally modified guns. Tony leans against iron bars. Well, more _drapes_ over them, and watches what he can see of the fight. It isn't until one of the bad guys stumbles out into the corridor, spots Tony above him and points a gun at him that Tony realizes that _he's_ in trouble here, too.  
  
A shot fires. There's an explosion of pain, and the world goes dark.  
  
It's completely unfair that death should hurt so much. The throbbing red behind Tony's eyelids might be hell, which is a shame since Tony doesn't believe in God, but it would just figure that the devil is real. The surface beneath him is hard and cold and some demon is stabbing him in the head with an icepick. Something grabs his shoulder, hard, and Tony yelps and fights until the agony is too much and then he just lays still, trying to keep his head from exploding.  
  
"Tony. Open your eyes. _Tony_."  
  
 _What happened to "Mr. Stark"?_ Tony thinks a bit viciously even as he tries to comply.  
  
Weirdly, he's reminded of their childhood, of Bruce and Tony sitting in a dark wardrobe, of Bruce telling elaborate stories and Tony believing them, just for pretend, just for a little while. There's this other person and he's not Bruce. He's someone in a stupid costume that should not be as intimidating as it is. He's someone with a utility belt full of spy gadgets and a head full of ways to drop a man who has an uzi and is standing twenty yards away.  
  
When Tony finally manages to get his eyes open the world is in even less focus than it had been, and there's an opaque shadow looming above him. Hands sheathed in leather bracket his face, keeping him from moving.  
  
"When I tell you to stay put, _stay put_."  
  
Though Tony can't really make out details, yet, he can feel the glare accompanying those words.  
  
"You told me to stay put?" Tony asks, because he honestly doesn't remember that part.  
  
The blurry darkness above him sort of ruffles along the edges like a long-suffering sigh. "Can you stand?"  
  
Tony blinks a few times, slow, and tries to wiggle his toes. "Maybe?"  
  
Bruce pulls the entire world inside out, or maybe just hauls Tony upright.  
  
"Am I dead?" Tony whimpers, eyes squeezed shut.  
  
"The bullet grazed your temple." Bruce's voice is terse and harsh, a scraping rasp against Tony's ears. "You'll be fine, but we have to move."  
  
"My parents are dead," Tony blurts. That's important, isn't it? It feels like it's something that needs to be said to this person who is and isn't his best friend. It's part accusation, part explanation for this mess he's gotten himself into. "They." Tony's throat closes around the words. It's embarrassing that he still can't talk about it. Howard would have been ashamed. "Where _were_ you? When." Thumbs ghost along his cheeks and the gentleness of it makes Tony's chest ache. "I needed." Abruptly, Tony feels hot, his chest constricting, but he's _not going to cry_. "Shit. I can't. I just can't. Just...kill me? Please? Put me out of my misery."  
  
"Don't even—"  
  
The world upends again and there's a roaring sound in Tony's ears and suddenly he's on his feet and Bruce has shoved him up against the wall, leaning in to growl directly into his ear.  
  
"Don't even _joke_ about that."  
  
Tony's ragged little laugh probably doesn't reassure anyone, and he drags his arm across his eyes and winces as salt water stings the scrape trickling blood on his temple.  
  
"Tony," Bruce says, softly, softer than he's been this whole time and he's warm even through the suit, pressed along Tony's side, holding him up, keeping him close.  
  
"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm fine. I'm _fine_. Let's just get out of here, please."  
  
There is a long moment while Bruce hesitates and Tony bites his tongue, trying to pull it together, trying to keep everything inside that wants to burst out in a festering rush. Neither one of them have time for that, now. Or ever, if Tony has anything to say about it.  
  
Then they're moving again, Bruce's hand on his elbow. More stairs. Tony manages to wrap mental duct tape over the cracks in his soul and focus a little on their surroundings. The sign on the next stairwell is marked _10_ which, okay, at least it's not twenty-ish, which is where Tony thinks they started, but Tony still resolves to only ever take elevators from now on, _Jesus fucking Christ_.  
  
"If you won't tell me your name," Tony says into the semi-amicable silence, "then can I at least know what I should call you?"  
  
"I'm Batman."  
  
"Bat— _really_?" Tony gives him a disbelieving look, half-convinced Bruce is joking, but there's nothing but the grim determination of one foot in front of the other. "Batman. Okay. Anthony Edward Stark," Tony says, because his good manners have been so trained into him they're almost a compulsion, by now. "Pleased to meet you."  
  
~~  
  
There are, of course, explosions by the end of it. Near misses and car chases and _holy hell_ Batman has a ridiculously _awesome_ car. Tony wants to lick it. Seriously. Also, he's pretty sure Batman kisses him. Or maybe performs CPR. Tony's chest certainly hurts like his heart's stopped and he can't seem to find his breath.  
  
Tony wakes in a foreign hospital with Obadiah asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair at his bedside and has to be convinced it wasn't all some drugged-out dream sequence.  
  
The news is in an uproar about the exposed slave ring and the new superhero that brought it down single-handedly.  
  
Tony tries to hide how much he flinches away when people reach for him, and picks up the nervous habit of rubbing his hands over his wrists, trying to erase the feeling of rope cutting into his skin, but his sleep is mostly peaceful, guarded by a looming shadow that fails to be anything but a comfort.  
  
~~  
  
Apparently, Tony's introduction to Batman is the world's introduction to Batman. By the time Tony gets back to the States, news of The Caped Crusader's exploits have garnered enough public interest that the media is clamoring for interviews of anyone who's had an encounter. Tony's experience is no longer solitary but it is the most extensive.  
  
Obadiah thinks it might be a good way to reintroduce Tony to the public eye, so he hops on the media circuit for a few lazy laps. The number one question on everyone's lips is, "Who is he?" to which Tony answers very honestly, "I have no idea, but I will buy him dinner next time he's in town."  
  
He absolutely means it, too, on both accounts. The first part because there are large chunks of time missing for him—whole sections of that night that are nothing but a blur of lights and noise and one very prominent, person-shaped antithesis to both. The second because what he _does_ remember is _hot,_ and also full of burning anger, which he doesn't understand but he doesn't have to. Tony isn't all that good at analyzing his emotions, but he's perfectly comfortable with hate sex.  
  
He has to…elaborate creatively on quite a bit of his story, but he figures that's okay because most of the reporters are more interested in sensation than fact.  
  
There is one notable exception: a brunette firecracker from _The Daily Planet_ who reams Tony for various inconsistencies and picks apart the gaps in his timeline. _The Daily Planet_ is a vaguely respectable paper with a wide readership, which is just the sort of thing Tony is trying to avoid. The only reason he agreed to the interview was because they promised to send him a baby, barely-above-intern reporter who was just going to do a little fact-checking and maybe get a soundbyte.  
  
It should be nothing, even so. Tony's been handling the press since he was eight, but she's very pretty and his guard is down, and she _doesn't back off_ until Tony has a small meltdown, shouts at her and then finds himself shaking so hard that he can't even stand up to storm out properly.  
  
He hopes Obadiah kept his father's PR department, because they're experts at smoothing over Stark dramatics by now and Tony's probably going to need that.  
  
Her little assistant-shadow saves him, and Tony hadn't even really noticed his quiet presence until he's pressing a warm hand between Tony's shoulder blades, urging him to put his head down and _just breathe_. He's young enough that he probably _is_ an intern, but he has steel in his voice and compassion in his sky blue eyes behind the lenses of his completely out-of-date black rimmed glasses.  
  
The brunette is contrite but hardly mollified and it's thoroughly embarrassing for all parties involved. Tony thought he'd managed to shed shame and grow indifferent to humiliation, but apparently he's not quite as hardened as he thinks. As hardened as he'd like to be.  
  
Obadiah is going to want the reporter reprimanded and, if Tony knows his business partner, fired and buried in teen pop magazine hell for the rest of her career and that's something Tony is going to have to head off because it isn't her fault he can't keep it together, but right now he's just working on not falling completely to pieces. He might be failing when the assistant-kid asks, "Are you okay?"  
  
And Tony honestly doesn't have an answer for that.  
  
Shortly thereafter, Tony goes looking for a good therapist.  
  
Obadiah suggests one, a woman who's young to her field but has already gained a good deal of respect. She's gorgeous and blonde and Tony likes her stuffy librarian persona, so he returns to her week after week, though he's not sure how much good it does.  
  
Obadiah never does find out the details of the interview, though he suspects it didn't go smoothly. _The Daily Planet_ reporter doesn't publish the more mortifying aspects of her story, producing an unremarkable fluff piece that gets lost in the flood. Tony's grateful. He's even more grateful when, years later, he learns just how talented and relentless a reporter she is and how it must have burned her to stay her hand.  
  
Life goes on. The days feel long and Tony feels stretched thin over them, like he's fraying at the edges and see-through in the middle.  
  
~~  
  
It takes another year for Bruce to return. Tony finds out about it like this:  
  
He's wearing an old tank top that at one point had probably been red before Tony's unfortunate foray into laundry had left it an off-red color that's too obviously an accident to really be called pink. It's got oil stains and so do his jeans, which sling kind of low because Tony's lost weight again. Tony doesn't care because they're his softest pair—but that's because they're also his oldest pair, threads held together by grime and a prayer. He's got his favorite aviator-goggles-cum-safety-glasses pushed into his hairline, undoubtedly making the uncombed mess even worse.  
  
He's covered in plaster dust because he's in the middle of renovating his mother's mansion in Gotham which, at the moment, basically consists of Tony bashing in walls with a sledgehammer. It's very therapeutic. His therapist would be horrified. She doesn't seem the type to understand coping with tension through violence.  
  
He's crossing past the second-story dining room, probably in his own little dust cloud, with the sledgehammer slung over his shoulder, when he sees a man-shaped shadow move by one of the tall windows. His heart's immediately in his throat, and he can feel phantom ropes around his wrists again, which his therapist has told him is a perfectly reasonable reaction to his trauma, but that doesn't make it any easier to live with. It makes him want to curl up and it makes him want to punch things. Instead, he just tightens his grip on his sledgehammer and moves to investigate with an aggressive sort of fearfulness.  
  
Bruce Wayne stands in a pale cut of light, suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder, gray button down open at the collar, looking like an ad in a men's fashion magazine. They blink at each other and then Bruce raises an eyebrow, his eyes trailing a slow and thorough up-and-down-and-up-again.  
  
 _Shit_ , he's gorgeous. Tony'd forgotten how goddamned beautiful the man could be, every movement elegant and controlled—moreso now than when they were kids, like he's perfectly suited to those stylish parties and high society functions that bore Tony out of his head. He can see the glint of crystal champagne flutes in Bruce's smile and the glitter of diamonds in his eyes. He's grown some, too, tall and broad shouldered, filling out his perfectly tailored suit. Tony feels small and dark and scruffy by comparison.  
  
"Is that a sledgehammer or are you just happy to see me?" Bruce asks in a drawl that manages to make the old, worn cliché come off as charming.  
  
"It's a sledgehammer," Tony says flatly, squeezing all the emotions that suddenly surge up at the sight of him, a wide range rapidly descending from joy to rage, out of his voice. He continues to hold the hammer in front of him because, frankly, he's contemplating using it on Bruce's head. It's either that or fling himself into Bruce's arms, and that would be completely unacceptable. "How did you get in here?"  
  
"I like what you're doing to the place." He touches the dust cloth that's draped over one of the chairs.  
  
"No, seriously, I need to know where the security breach is."  
  
"I have the code to the gate."  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
"Sure I do."  
  
Tony stops and stares at Bruce, hard. He's lying. He's lying right to Tony's face, and maybe it's not about something big—there are holes in this house's security all over the place; it's on the mental list of things for Tony to fix—but the ease at which he does it sets off all sorts of warning bells, triggers the little part of Tony that's been quietly seething since Bruce left him behind, hardens the shell around all of his soft bits.  
  
"Since you seem to know this place so well, you must know where the door is." Tony turns away and starts heading in the direction of a guest room where he plans on knocking out part of the ceiling to install a ventilation system and a range hood. "You can see yourself out."  
  
"It took me less than two minutes to hack the network hub, turn off the cameras and the alarms, get past them and then turn them back on. The system has a lag on when it loses power and when it sounds the alarm of three minutes."  
  
Tony turns back reluctantly, pulled by curiosity and his inability to really ignore Bruce properly. "And the fact that you're lurking on the second floor?"  
  
"I figured the upper level windows had a higher chance of being unlocked."  
  
Tony narrows his eyes and waits.  
  
"And I thought the challenge might be fun," Bruce says, shrugging. His expression is a friendly, open look that Tony knows from his own experience works really well on deflecting reporters, hangers-on and basically anyone Tony doesn't want to deal with but also doesn't want to piss off. That Bruce would use it on him makes his hackles rise, but it sounds like he's telling the truth. One way to be sure.  
  
"Show me."  
  
Bruce turns back to the window. "Well, if you want to watch, I could probably make the climb now—"  
  
"I mean the network hack, you asshole."  
  
Bruce grins and Tony has the sinking feeling that he's losing, despite the prickly resentment that Tony can feel under his skin like quills.  
  
"Sure," Bruce says and leads the way toward the security room—a small, closed space with no windows and filled with monitors that Tony intends to make obsolete as soon as he upgrades the closed camera system to wireless that can be accessed from a tablet anywhere in the house.  
  
"I'm not even going to ask how you know where _this_ is, you creepy, floor-plan memorizing stalker."  
  
Bruce's white teeth flash in the dark as he sits down and begins tabbing through the screens with a competency that Tony finds surprising, even though he knows he shouldn't. Bruce has always been able to master anything he set his mind to. He slips his safety goggles off and tosses them into an extra chair, sets his hammer against the wall and settles in to watch Bruce demonstrate brilliance in yet another subject, only slightly begrudging.  
  
"So," Bruce says after a few moments of silence. "I heard you had an encounter."  
  
"Hm?" Tony's been lulled by the dance of Bruce's long fingers over the keyboard, the soft sound of rapid tapping, the mental calculations of how much effort needs to go into fixing the weakness in the system that Bruce is showing him.  The calm that it's always so easy to find when Bruce is nearby.  
  
"With the Batman."  
  
The chill that coils down his throat and tightens around his stomach is expected, but the speed at which it ruins Tony's tentative calm is still surprising. He sits straighter, tries and fails not to fidget.  
  
"I don't really remember it."  
  
"No?"  
  
"Are you going to pretend that you didn't read the articles?"  
  
"Nobody tells the press the whole truth."  
  
"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly at my best." Tony can feel the sickly salty-sweet taste on the back of his tongue from drugged drinks forced down his throat, the imprint of hands holding him down, despite the fact that he knows all those bruises faded long ago. "Also, kind of super concussed from being nearly _shot in the head_. I'm _fine_ , though. By the way." Because if he says it enough times, it's bound to be true eventually.  
  
The room is kept cool to help the CPUs run at capacity, but Tony feels too hot. It's getting difficult to breathe evenly and there aren't enough exits. He stands up, angling for the door, but then Bruce swivels toward him and catches his arm. It's a soft hold, not meant to trap, or Tony would have fought it off and kept going. Instead, it stalls him.  
  
Bruce's fingertips skim down Tony's arm, making him shiver, and touches the hand that Tony has clenched around his own wrist without even realizing it. Bruce doesn't even have to try hard to get Tony to let go, to turn Tony's arm over and press both thumbs against the reddening imprint of Tony's nails on the underside of his wrist.  
  
"I knew you were all right," he says without looking up from the study he's making of Tony's veins and tendons. "I made sure."  
  
Tony scoffs, but it comes out shakier than he would have liked. "How? Did you steal my medical records? Because I sure as hell didn't see you at the hospital."  
  
The pause that follows might have been unnoticeable to anyone else, but it's just long enough that Tony knows whatever is going to come out of Bruce's mouth next is going to be another lie. "I talked to Obadiah."  
  
And see, that answer actually makes _sense_ , but it's a lie nevertheless, and Tony doesn't know what game Bruce is playing, but his thumbs start rubbing circles into Tony's skin and the little intermittent shivers become full body—and it's not fear. Tony's been flinching away from contact since he came back from Amsterdam—Obadiah, even Rhodey can't touch him without Tony having to fight through his first, reactive need to _get away_. But Bruce puts his hands on Tony and Tony finds himself leaning _closer_.  
  
Tony doesn't even think Bruce realizes how big that is, and it makes him want to headbutt Bruce in the _face_ and also chain them together so that Bruce can never ever get away and neither of those reactions are healthy. Tony _knows_ this, but that doesn't make the thoughts stop.  
  
Tony has been clawing his way through this world without Bruce for almost a decade, and has spent the last year determinedly putting his life back together on his own. It shouldn't be this easy to fall back into Bruce's orbit. Tony shouldn't want to collapse into Bruce's lap and curl up and let him take care of things. Bruce is going to leave again, someday. Tony was never enough to make him stay. That's a sobering enough thought that he finds it in him to pull away.  
  
"I need you to leave, now."  
  
Bruce looks up at him, and it's that same fire Tony remembers from years ago, when they were two grieving boys sitting in a room together where day had come again, despite the fact that the world seemed to have slowed to a stop, caught in the endless loop of two gunshots, two bodies hitting the ground. It's banked, now, no longer wild but no less consuming, no less compelling. Tony looks away.  
  
"Tony," Bruce says.  
  
" _Go_." Tony puts all the forcefulness he can manage into that word, and then moves to the doorway just so he can put some distance between them. After a few moments, Bruce stands and follows him.  
  
Silence descends, and follows them doggedly all the way to the foyer, which some cleaning company has kept impeccable despite the fact that this place has been uninhabited for three years. Bruce moves way too quietly for a big guy in dress shoes. Tony wants to ask him about it, but doesn't. Even as socially awkward as Obadiah despairs him being, he guesses it would be bad taste to demand the secrets of someone you're kicking out.  
  
"Tony," Bruce says, and Tony has to brace himself before turning toward him. He searches Tony's face for a moment, but whatever he sees shutters his expression, and he smiles that bland in-front-of-cameras smile that makes Tony's skin crawl. "If you're going to be in Gotham for a while, we should do lunch."  
  
"Sure. Of course."  
  
It's so generically polite it's almost physically painful. Then Bruce is turning away, walking out the front door and down the steps.  
  
It's evening, which is a surprise—when did that happen?—but Tony barely even notices that he apparently lost about six hours to this house and its ghosts. Bruce's back is to Tony, and that's all Tony sees—his friend's back, the set of his shoulders in the stiff black suit, the gulf of space between them that seems to have grown wider than Tony thought possible. He remembers this feeling. This feeling is familiar. This feeling is a funeral, a death in the family. He doesn't have maps for this; they didn't plan for this and now he's not sure he can find the way.  
  
All Tony knows for sure is that he's been waiting for something for a while, no matter how many times he's told himself that he's moved on, that life goes on, that Tony's world doesn't stop spinning just because Bruce Wayne isn't in it, that 'home' absolutely cannot be a person. People are too weak to build foundations on. He also knows that if he lets Bruce walk away he'll probably be waiting forever.  
  
Tony is down the steps before he really registers the movement; his hands are on Bruce's black jacket and Bruce has turned toward him with that hideously neutral expression that Tony takes in both hands and kisses, hard.  
  
Bruce kisses back like he's been waiting for this, which he may have been because he's always been annoyingly good at predicting Tony, the asshole. His large hands span the breadth from Tony's jaw to his temple, cradling as he tips Tony's head back to get a better angle, and Tony makes an annoyed sound, even as he shivers, and bites Bruce's bottom lip hard enough to make him back off a bit.  
  
"You're sending a lot of mixed signals." Bruce's tone is light and teasing, but his hands hold Tony with a determination that says a crowbar may need to be applied to get him to let go.  
  
"Fuck you," Tony snaps, not in the mood to put up with any horseshit. "You are the king of mixed signals." He's dragging Bruce back toward the house determinedly, although he suspects they're only making progress because Bruce is letting him, giant, stupid, muscled jerkface. "You don't get to complain about _anything_."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Seven. _Years_."  
  
"I came back."  
  
"On your own time. That doesn't earn you any points. You know what would earn you points, though?"  
  
"Less talk, more kissing?"  
  
"And people call _me_ the super genius. Wait." They're at the steps, now, so Tony makes Bruce stand at the bottom as he takes two steps up under Bruce's bemused gaze. Then he pulls Bruce back in.  
  
Two steps is enough to make Tony a little taller than Bruce, and he knows the moment Bruce figures it out by the shape of his grin against Tony's lips, his hands skimming up Tony's ribs, hitching his shirt up a little. It makes Tony think of being twelve, Bruce fourteen and leaving— _again_ , this time with a sense of finality that made Tony want to do crazy things, like kiss Bruce just as the night turned over to dawn.  
  
Even though it brings back the memory, this is nothing like it was when they were kids, making out in the furtive dark. Back then, Bruce had been saying goodbye and Tony had been trying to make him stay, and everything had been frantic and fraught and broken.  
  
This feels like pieces settling back into place.  
  
They find a guest room because Tony declares the master bedroom to be too creepy _that's my mother's bed what's wrong with you?_ and unearth it from dust covers until Bruce declares it _acceptable_ and Tony declares _your obsessive tendencies aren't sexy; you know that, right_?  
  
When Tony's back hits the bed and Bruce's weight presses him down, he has a moment where he doesn't register that it's Bruce, his rabbit-brain only telling him he's trapped beneath someone larger and he needs to escape. It doesn't last more than a moment, at least Tony hopes it doesn't, but when he comes back Bruce is sitting up, watchful.  
  
"We don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable," Bruce says, and the gentleness in his voice is underlined with a thread of something darker, like a promise that Bruce will break necks if Tony asks him to.  
  
Tony's never been comfortable with the idea of Bruce having to rescue him. He's always been quietly convinced that it'll be his job, one day, to save _Bruce_.  
  
"I _know_ that, dipshit," Tony snaps, grabbing a handful of Bruce's shirt—his jacket oh-so-neatly hung on the back of a chair already—reveling in getting plaster dust all over the silvery silk as he pulls Bruce down. Bruce lets himself be pulled; Tony's under no illusions about his own strength. Physically, Bruce will probably always beat him. But Tony's relatively certain that he can out-stubborn Bruce at least fifty percent of the time. "I want to."  
  
The small, worried line doesn't entirely ease from between Bruce's eyebrows. He reaches out a hand and Tony meets him halfway, but instead of guiding to down to his cock, hot and heavy and beginning to feel constricted it his pants so they can get _on_ with it, he brings it brings it to his face and nuzzles into it because his subconscious mind wants to _kill him with embarrassment_ , apparently.  
  
"If it gets weird, I'll tell you," he says to Bruce's searching look.  
  
Bruce curves his fingers, rubbing little circles into Tony's scalp, sending soft burrs of pleasure through him that make his toes curl.  
  
"Promise." It's not a question; it's a command.  
  
Usually, Tony would be contrary just to prove a point, but he thinks Bruce might need this, and maybe Tony does, too. He turns his head and presses a kiss into Bruce's palm. "I promise."  
  
Then Bruce shifts his hand until it's hot against the back of Tony's neck and reels him in, a little tentative, until Tony huffs and pounces. His knees land on either side of Bruce's hips as Bruce rolls onto his back to accommodate, and he brackets Bruce's head with his arms as he leans down and kisses Bruce hungrily, losing himself in for a few minutes in the softness of Bruce's lips, the slick tease of his tongue, the rough burn of stubble.  
  
Bruce's hands skim up the backs of Tony's thighs and then grip his ass, pulling Tony down as he rocks up and Tony has to break off with a gasp and resist the urge to rut shamelessly against Bruce while they're still clothed. He bites softly at Bruce's shoulder through his shirt in retaliation.  
  
"Hands-y," he says, breathier than he would have liked.  
  
"Eager," Bruce retorts and looks unbearably smug as another squeeze makes Tony gasp again.  
  
"Okay, pants off. And I hope you came prepared," Tony adds as he slides off the bed and goes about taking his shoes off with the least amount of clumsiness he can manage, "because if we have to use lube and condoms left here by my mother and whatever company she kept—we're still doing this, but I'm not going to talk to you for at least a week afterward."  
  
Bruce is getting out of his pants in a much more graceful way, of course, and he's come prepared, _of course_ , producing a tube of lubricant and enough condoms that Tony raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Optimistic much?"  
  
Bruce raises and eyebrow right back. He's fiddling with his cuffs, and mostly turned away, shirt open, legs bare—and Tony should not be so distracted by the legs of a man he's known practically his whole life. "Are you saying you're not up for the challenge?"  
  
"Oh I'm _up_ for it." And he rocks his hips in Bruce's direction, completely naked now and unashamed. Shame and Tony Stark have not been on speaking terms for a while, and besides, Tony likes his cock. It's a nice shape; it's a nice length, and he knows how to use it.  
  
Bruce gives him a look so droll it's practically an entire dissertation about how much of a disappointment he finds Tony at this moment.  
  
"Come on," Tony protests. "You practically handed that to me on a silver platter!"  
  
Bruce finally finishes fiddling with his cuffs and slips out of his shirt in a liquid movement that looks like he's practiced for the sole purpose of seducing someone. The shirt goes on the chair, folded neatly, and then Bruce turns toward him and all the air goes out of Tony's lungs, as does his ability to form coherent sentences, because _fuck_ , Bruce is gorgeous.  
  
Tony closes the distance between them, and presses a palm against Bruce's pec, rubbing down and over a nipple and smiles a little when Bruce leans into it. His other hand, a teasing slide of fingertips from Bruce's navel up to the curve of his ribs, finds a rough spot that feels odd, and Tony's smile drops away when he looks at it curiously. It's a healed wound, about the size of a dime and almost perfectly round, fresh enough to be pink.  
  
Bruce's hazy, lust-filled gaze sharpens a little, and he moves to pull away, but not before Tony snakes his hand around Bruce's back and feels the much messier exit wound, splayed out just beneath Bruce's shoulder blade.  
  
"Did you get _shot_?"  
  
"Polo accident."  
  
Tony can't even—he can't even find _words_ to express how much he does not believe Bruce at this moment, and his long, hard stare must convey at least some of that because Bruce looks a little abashed.  
  
"Before you have to lie to somebody about that _for real_ , you're going to make up something at least a little bit believable, okay?"  
  
"Tony—"  
  
He doesn't want to hear it, to have to deal with something else Bruce isn't willing to tell him, and lust is hot in his veins, clouding his good judgment, so he blurts, "Can I suck you off?"  
  
The _please_ , gets stuck behind his teeth because Stark men don't beg (then again, they're not really supposed to suck cock either, Anthony, so why even bother with this last little hangup?), but Tony tries to put all his pleading into his eyes as he tilts his head back and looks Bruce in the face.  
  
Bruce sucks in a sharp breath, pupils dilating, and a faint but fascinating flush moving slowly down his chest. Tony smirks and crowds Bruce backward until his knees hit the bed and he sits, a little less gracefully than usual. Tony kneels between his legs, nudging them apart until he's made space for himself, and then gestures imperiously.  
  
"Condom me."  
  
Bruce snorts, but he also practically falls backward in a scramble to find one in the folds of the classy cream comforter of the guest bed. The movement makes Bruce's half-hard cock rock a little closer and a little switch flicks off in Tony's head, the one that controls the _no, stop_ signal.  
  
Unable to resist touching any longer, he skims a palm down Bruce's length. Bruce arches a bit and then goes boneless with a little, strangled sound that makes Tony smile and tip forward, fingers closing a bit more firmly, feeling it swell under his touch, nuzzling down to the base where he presses his tongue to the bristly-soft hair in a firm lick that makes the cock in his hand twitch, makes Bruce's thighs tense and press against Tony as if to hold him there. Tony pauses for a self-check, waiting for the panic that would usually rear its head at the hint of being trapped.  
  
When Tony determines that the rapid beating of his heart as nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how very much he wants Bruce's cock in his mouth, he lets himself relax a little, pressing up against the bed to get a better angle. The comforter is smooth and cool and Tony rubs against it wantonly. He lifts Bruce's cock and presses a soft kiss to the underside, then lower, nuzzling and breathing deep. Bruce smells mostly of soap, something with a warm, masculine undertone of fragrance, and hints of ozone.  
  
Tony applies just the slightest edge of teeth to the soft, heavy sac and then stops again, this time to check on Bruce. Not everyone is okay with teeth, and usually this is about the time that a hand grabs Tony's hair and guides him, but, except for the tension in Bruce's thighs and the intermittent, almost imperceptible shivers Tony can feel wracking Bruce's muscular frame, he hasn't really moved, much.  
  
"Babe, you okay?" When that doesn't get a response, Tony sits up and rubs both hands over Bruce's thighs, a little coil of worry tightening around Tony's gut. Bruce has got both hands pressed over his face, and Tony can't get clear signals from Bruce's body language. "Bruce? You gotta use your words."  
  
"Mmph," Bruce manages, and then wraps a leg around Tony, pulling him in. "Give me a minute."  
  
Tony grins, relieved. "I'll take that as a compliment...?"  
  
"I'm not feeding your ego," Bruce grumbles, muffled.  
  
Tony lets himself feel a little smug. Bruce should really appreciate the amount of control it takes Tony to not put his mouth back on Bruce's cock. As it is, he has to swallow saliva before saying, "Why do you smell like an airplane?"  
  
Bruce finally drops his hands and gets up on his elbows to look at him incredulously. "What?"  
  
"Sorry. Just curious." Tony shrugs. "What, you didn't expect me to babble in bed?"  
  
"Probably because I came straight here from one," Bruce answers as he sits up in a smooth curl that makes well-developed abs jump into sharp relief and drops a foil packet into Tony's waiting hand.  
  
Tony's already got the corner in his mouth, rips it open and tosses the foil away before saying, "Didn't you stop in to see Alfred?"  
  
"No. I called him to check in, and find out where you were, and then just—straight here."  
  
Tony feels something twist in him as he glances up, a fight between the part that wants to interpret this as something important, and the part that knows from past experience that this is probably much more significant to Tony than it is to Bruce. Bruce is watching him with a rapt attention that sends heat through him, settling at the base of his spine, making his skin prickle and his mind hum, like he's deep inside a complicated equation that's finally beginning to unfold, variables clicking into place. It makes Tony want to show off a little.  
  
"Hold on, babe," he says. "You're going to like this."  
  
He gets the foil open and slips the condom over his tongue and gets a firm grip on Bruce's cock and swallows it down, slipping the condom on as he goes. He feels Bruce breathe deep and go tense, and Tony remembers this, how quiet Bruce was.  
  
Latex rubs against his tongue, different from skin. It makes Tony regret the need, but only briefly because the stretch of his lips and the weight of Bruce on his tongue is perfect, makes Tony want to shiver and touch himself, but he keeps one hand wrapped around the base of Bruce's cock and the other clenched on this thigh because he wants this to last as long as possible. He takes as much of Bruce in as he can and chokes a little when Bruce's hips hitch forward. Bruce makes an apologetic sound. His touch is gentle in Tony's hair and that shakes something apart in Tony's heart, crumbles some last wall.  
  
Tony touches his knee, _it's okay_ , and then they find their rhythm, Bruce's hips canting in controlled little thrusts, and Tony greedy for more, taking in Bruce's entire length down to the root as much as he can, his hands braced on Bruce's thighs. His mouth is filled almost too full, but he loves the burn of it, the smell of Bruce, the way it fills him up and turns off the part of his brain that always thinks too much.  
  
Then Bruce's hand tightens in his hair and Tony is no longer in his mother's mansion, no longer in Gotham at all. He's back in a too-hot room an ocean away, rope around his wrists and throat.  
  
It's only a moment, and then he's back. Bruce has let him go, hands up like he wants to reach for Tony but he isn't sure if he should, his eyes are wide with worry, and Tony's still on his knees but he's pulled away, out from between Bruce's legs. His heart is pounding in his head and he's fighting to get his breath even and through the fading terror he's so angry. Because it's been going so well and he'd let his guard down and he _doesn't want to feel like this anymore_.  
  
"Tony," Bruce says.  
  
"Wait," Tony snaps, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth, and then tries to gentle his voice almost immediately. "Sorry sorry, just...give me a second."  
  
"You've got nothing to apologize for," Bruce says, and other people have said the same thing, but there's something in Bruce's voice, a weight and darkness to it, that says he would rearrange the world with sheer willpower and fists if it could make Tony feel better, that calms Tony down.  
  
Tony scrubs hands over his face and says, "Keep talking."  
  
"I wish I'd been there. I wish I'd been able to—"  
  
"Not about that," Tony says, hastily.  
  
There's a pause, and then, "A lot of rain, for this time of year."  
  
Tony drops his hands and glares at Bruce who looks, admittedly, a bit sheepish. "Really?"  
  
"I'm not...particularly good with words."  
  
"Nooo," Tony says, and then continues to say it as he crawls back over to Bruce and settles between his legs again. " _You_? Not good with _words_?"  
  
Bruce smiles at him, relieved but still holding himself carefully, as non-threatening as possible. "Better?"  
  
"Yeah, I think so. Problem is that it's always 'better' until it isn't."  
  
"How can I help?"  
  
"Kiss me?" Tony catches Bruce's wrists and lifts Bruce's hands toward his face, and Bruce doesn't need more prompting than that, cradling Tony's head and kissing like he can mend the cracks in Tony's heart with soft lips and slick tongue and long fingers that hold Tony like he's precious.  
  
It's too much. Tony can't handle it; has to deflect with humor, has to break away and make a little face and say, "Okay we're getting tested as soon as possible and then neither of us are having sex with anyone else until we can do this again with _out_ latex breath."  
  
"You have plans to have sex with other people?"  
  
There's an undercurrent to the question that makes Tony look Bruce in the eyes, and the possessiveness he sees there makes his mouth go dry. It feels like a punch to the gut, a blow to the last defensive structures he has. He has to swallow before saying, "Er, no? Not, like, officially or anything. But I didn't think this was going to be an exclusive thing..." Bruce's mouth thins into a hard line, and he looks away, and Tony might be rusty but he thinks he can interpret that brand of Bruce-silence. "But...it...can be? If you want it to—"  
  
" _Yes_ ," Bruce says, with enough emphasis to surprise them both.  
  
Tony feels his heart sort of melt into a little pile of warm goo, and his smile is probably completely embarrassing, but he doesn't _care_ , as he says, "Okay, babe," and kisses the line of Bruce's mouth until it relaxes again, until he kisses back, hands sliding around Tony's back to pull him closer. "Okay, I've got you."  
  
Bruce's hands slide over his back, tracing faint scars, the legacy of Howard's temper and skill with a belt, and there's something in Bruce's eyes that says he'd like to hide Tony away where no one else can touch him. Tony wants to _let him_. That's the part that should be particularly alarming.  
  
"And I've got you," Bruce says an a low rumble that Tony can feel through his lips, down to his gut. His cock twitches with interest.  
  
"Fuck me," Tony says, because if he doesn't, he might say something foolish. There's a part of him that feels like he's folding paper stars again, hoping that his father is wrong, that _forever_ is something that people can hold on to.  
  
"We don't have to—" Bruce sucks in a sharp breath as Tony takes hold of his cock.  
  
He squeezes, just enough that he's sure he has Bruce's attention as he enunciates. "I want to."  
  
Bruce doesn't need any more prompting, pulling Tony into a hard kiss and then onto the bed. It's messy and a little clumsy, and probably would have worked out better if either one of them had been willing to let go or stop kissing for a moment, but when they're finished, Bruce executes a final roll that leaves Tony straddling his waist as Bruce sprawls out beneath him, his cock rubbing against Tony's ass, and Tony's hands braced on Bruce's ridiculous abs.  
  
"Yeah?" Tony has to ask, a little dazed.  
  
"If it works for you."  
  
And it...does. This way, Tony can retain enough control to, hopefully, not set off any more unfortunate incidents. Bruce's solution is a good one, and that he thought of it makes Tony want to squirm and look away from Bruce's searching gaze.  
  
Instead, Tony straightens his shoulders and says, "Yeah."  
  
Bruce nods. "Good." Then his expression turns a little wry. "Because I don't think I can hold out much longer."  
  
"Yeah, me either." Tony grins and holds out his hand with an imperious flick. "Lube me."  
  
What he meant was for Bruce to hand him the tube that's lurking somewhere in the sheets, but instead, Bruce catches his outstretched hand and pulls him forward a little so that his other hand, slick and warm and when did he have the opportunity to do _that_ —part his cheeks and rub against the pucker of muscle. Tony makes a keening sound and falls forward, catching himself with a forearm against Bruce's chest, head dropping to press against Bruce's heartbeat.  
  
"Tony?"  
  
"Don't _stop_."  
  
Permission received, Bruce opens him up in his focused, thorough way, refusing to be rushed, no matter how much Tony swears at him, voice hoarse and breathless. Tony can only gasp for breath and buck a little frantically, writhing and demanding _more_ , wanting the burn of it, the roughness of knuckles, and faint scrape of nails. His cock hitches against Bruce's stomach, the soft-bristle buzz of hair a maddening texture that Tony rubs into desperately. It's not enough, and it's too much, and after only a few minutes, Tony has to grab Bruce's wrist.  
  
"Okay," Tony pants. "That's enough."  
  
Bruce practically _pouts_ at him, and Tony has to laugh, delight and lust bright in his chest as he leans forward to press kisses to the line between Bruce's eyebrows, to his cheek and then to his mouth.  
  
"Next time, babe," Tony promises against his lips. "We'll do it your way next time. You've got me; I'm not going anywhere. But right now I want you _in_ me before I start getting gray hairs, okay?"  
  
Tony flexes around Bruce's fingers for emphasis, and Bruce's eyes dilate. When he pulls out it drags a shudder from Tony, who has to bite his lip and focus on the pain to keep from coming immediately. He reaches behind him and grasps Bruce's cock, and he's too impatient to ease into it. Bruce gives a soft grunt as Tony drops his weight.  
  
Pain zings through him. Tony chases it, makes himself relax, feels his mind whiting out when pain shifts over to pleasure, the stretch of Bruce filling him. It's so good; it's _perfect_. Tony wants more. Bruce's hands are on his hips, thumbs pressing hard on the hollows, and that's good, too. Tony hopes he gets bruises, hopes Bruce leaves marks on him, hopes he isn't babbling that out loud.  
  
The rhythm they find is frantic, but it works, or at least Tony's too far gone to care. Every time Bruce thrusts up it's electric, heat and sparks, like atoms splitting in Tony's brain. Bruce is watching him like he's trying to take Tony apart with this eyes alone, his hair a mess, sweat a sheen over his whole body and he looks wrecked and _beautiful_ , in a way that takes Tony's remaining breath away.  
  
He isn't going to last long. He knows it. Takes his own cock in hand when he feels himself getting close, and then Bruce closes his hand around Tony's, palm hot against his skin, and that's pretty much it. The combined pull and heat from their hands and orgasm hits Tony hard, yelling and shuddering into it. Bruce slows as Tony collapses forward, catching himself with a hand next to Bruce's head.  
  
Bruce looks up at him, eyes luminous, and something smug behind that, an expression Tony has to kiss away. Bruce's hands skim up Tony's sides until Tony murmurs, "Come on, babe." And Bruce's arms lock around him, one hand splayed on Tony's shoulderblades and the other on the back of his head, muffling Tony's cries with his mouth as he thrusts up, hard, once, twice, and then Tony feels it as Bruce comes, pulses that shake both of them apart, leave them panting and boneless on the bed.  
  
Tony's head is propped on Bruce's chest, listening to the thud of his heart slowly return to a more sedate pace. Bruce's touch follows the line of Tony's arm until he finds Tony's hand and twines their fingers together.  For a moment, Tony lets himself be still, lets the quiet of the house sink into his skin, lets himself believe that he can hold on to this moment forever, and that it will always be like this between Bruce and himself.  
  
Eventually, Tony pulls away and gets them cleaned up with a corner of sheet because he honestly doesn't know where any towels are in this house, tossing the spent condom into a trashbin that looks like it might be plated in platinum, before settling next to Bruce again.  
  
"So, one down. What, like, twenty to go?" Tony scans the bed, trying to make a count of the condoms they have left. "I am so _so_ glad for teenage refractory periods."  
  
Bruce laughs. It's quiet, but genuine. The rush of pleasure Tony gets hearing it is probably all kinds of pathetic, but he can't help but smile back, dopey with warm feelings, as Bruce pulls him back in for another kiss.  
  
Tony is nineteen, a little sticky, and a lot satisfied, pressing greedily into Bruce's kiss and rubbing against him shamelessly, the first time he thinks _I love you_. He doesn't say it out loud, so he doesn't really get a reply, except he can feel Bruce's heart through his own chest, a sound that fills all the dark spaces with the beat of _home home home_.

 


	2. Bonus Epilogue

Tony's basking in the afterglow of round number five or six--he's starting to lose count--and trying to catch his breath when Bruce looks up from the path of soft kisses he's been trailing down Tony's chest to ask, "You really don't remember anything about him?"  
  
Tony's having trouble focusing. "Who?"  
  
"Batman."  
  
"Bruce," Tony starts, and then has to break off with a soft gasp as Bruce applies his teeth to Tony's nipple, gently. He grabs Bruce's hair with both hands and tugs. Bruce sits up and kisses him once, twice, brief but demanding, muffling bits of Tony's determined response. "If you flew _seven thousand miles_ just to ask me about _another man_ I'm going to throw you out the window and then sic the dogs on you."  
  
There's something in Bruce's smirk that Tony doesn't know how to interpret. "You don't have dogs."  
  
"I'll _get_ dogs," Tony promises in a disgruntled mutter. "Was this your whole plan? Climb in through my window and seduce me with your ability to trespass effectively so you can soften me up to interrogate me about some guy dressed in a costume I met, like, once when I was drugged to the gills?"  
  
"It worked, didn't it?"  
  
Bruce is so smug that Tony has no choice but to attempt to smother him with a pillow. Bruce laughs as he rolls away gets up, padding over to where he's folded his pants, digging through the pockets, "I had a plan B."  
  
He comes back and drops something next to Tony's hip: two tickets, the kind that are printed on sturdy paper and elaborated with fancy scrollwork around the crisp edges. Tony picks them up and examines them. "Haly's Circus? Your backup plan was to seduce me with things that I liked when I was five? Wow, you suck at this."  
  
"It's for charity, and they have an act that's supposed to be phenomenal. The Flying Graysons. You wanna be my date?"  
  
The look Tony gives Bruce is probably way too fond, if the grin he receives in response is any indication. "It's probably just the endorphins talking at this point but sure." Tony shrugs. "Should be fun."

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be darker. Like, way darker. And then I chickened out and it turned into really unforgivably fluffy fluff (with some sad). Um. Hope you liked it anyway! ALSO: I put in and then took out (and then put back in) so many scenes that I may have forgotten to warn about something because I, frankly, forgot about it. Please let me know if you see anything that I should add to the warnings! 
> 
> There are so many things about this story that I wanted to be better, but I've been fussing with it for two years, and if I don't get it out now I'll just never get it out. So! Comments and criticisms welcome!


End file.
